


Leather Bound Secrets

by teenagewaste



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Flashbacks, Journal, Letters, M/M, Mexico, Past Drug Use, Past Suicidal Thoughts, post 7x11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagewaste/pseuds/teenagewaste
Summary: Mickey didn’t know what it was that possessed him to untie the damn thing, hell, he should’ve fuckin’ thrown it out; it’s not his fuckin’ property. But goddamn if he wasn’t fuckin’ curious to at least read a page, see what kind of secrets this damned thing held. He untied it, unwrapped the long string from around the notebook one two three four times, before opening it. He looked down at the handwriting, the messy, looped handwriting that he knew so fucking well. He felt like he had just been punched in the gut.day one.hey mick. it’s me, ian.





	1. crossing the border

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom, and well, my first fic ever. I hope you guys enjoy it. :)

Crossing the border was the hardest part, looking at Ian through the rearview mirror, standing there with this fucking dopey ass smile on his face like he’d just seen Christ walk on fucking water or something. It was fucking heartbreaking.

Mickey had probably made it four, maybe five miles into Mexico before pulling over on the side of the highway, a heavy feeling in his chest, like his heart weighed ten pounds and it was pumping out acid instead of blood; he could feel the pain through his whole body. He needed to get out, stretch his legs, punch something, scream, fucking anything. He threw the stupid fucking wig off, getting out of the car with a pack of smokes, and walking a little ways away.

Alone. 

Mickey was in fucking Mexico all fucking alone. He shook his head, shakily putting a cigarette in his mouth, flicking at the lighter, _one two three four_ times before it finally lit. He blamed it on the lighter, it was almost out of fluid, but he knew, he knew it was because his hands were shaking.

He inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, not letting it out until there was barely anything left to come out, the nicotine giving him a bit of a head rush no matter how experienced of a smoker he was. Once that smoke was done, he lit up another one, taking his time to finish.

_Calm down._  

Ian. Of course he understood why Ian didn’t come with him; he had a family, a job, for fucks sake, the kid had a fucking life. Didn’t make it burn any less inside of him. Didn’t make the situation any less shitty. Didn’t make it any fucking better.

 

_“I don’t want your fucking money! I want…I want you to come with me.”_

 

God fucking dammit, the first time he’d ever heard Ian tell him he loved him had to be when he was leaving him, right? When he was looking at him, telling him that he couldn’t come with him. He couldn’t’ve told him back in the van? Or at the docks? Or in the fucking car somewhere? Ian Gallagher, just has the best fucking timing, doesn’t he?

Mickey sat down on the dirt, lighting a third cigarette. His thoughts kept circling back to the money that rested on the dashboard; it felt like fucking blood money. Like it would burn his hand if he fucking touched it. But then, how was he gonna get around Mexico without it? That was everything, that was the cash that was supposed to get them started, get their feet on the ground.

_Them. Their._

Is there a them? A their? Or did they finally expire? Done?

 

_“Done, Done.”_

_“You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me.”_

 

Mickey pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Fuck. Another drag, another deep breath, calm down. It’s fucking fine. You’re fucking fine. Grow up. Get back in the car. Drive further south. You’re four fucking miles from the border, someone’s gonna realize that something’s up.

He stood up, flicking the butt of his cigarette down into the dirt and walking slowly back over to the car, taking in his surroundings slowly. Dirt, scrawny ass trees, highway stretching as far as he could see. He was surprised that there were no tumbleweeds or cactuses anywhere. He got back into the car, debating whether or not to put the itchy wig back on. Does it really do anything? He’s already across the border, does he really need it? Not like he’s gonna keep it on forever, but he might as well keep it on for a couple more miles, just in case border control extends further into the country.

He throws the fucking nasty ass wig back on, ready to drive for a few more miles before he can get out of this dress. At least he can take the earrings off.

What was only going to be a couple of miles, turned into a couple of hours, it’s dusk, and by the time Mickey sees any place to stop, it’s a bar with a dim sign hanging above the door. After the fuckin’ day he’s had? He’s deserved a beer. Or four. Or a couple shots. What fuckin’ difference does it make? He pulls into the dirt parking lot, climbing into the backseat and grabbing his regular clothes, changing clumsily in the confined space of the car. He tossed the wig into the front seat, it landing somewhere in that general area.

When he finally got his clothes on straight and made sure his shirt finally wasn’t inside out, a mistake he made three times before his clothes were really on correctly. He climbed out of the backseat, grabbing the few twenties he had on him, not even bothering to look at the money that Ian left for him. He walked into the dimly lit bar, looking around. There were maybe three other people in the bar, two sitting in different booths and one sitting at the bar.

Mickey walked up to the bar, hopping up on one of the stools and looking around awkwardly.

_Do these people even fuckin’ speak English? Do they even take American cash? Fuck, I’m gonna make an idiot out of myself, might as well fuckin’ leave at this point._

Just as he was about to hop out of the stool and call it a night, the rough looking bartender walked up to him, scratching at his facial hair.

“What can I get for you?” The bartender said with a thick Mexican accent. He spoke English clear as the fuckin’ day, though.

“Uh, well,” Mickey stuttered. “You take American cash?”

The bartender let out a deep chuckle, “I think everyone takes American money, man.”

“’Ey, alright,” Mickey shrugged. “Lemme just get a fuckin’ beer then.” The bartender could obviously tell that Mickey wasn’t the type to request a special type of brew or anything, so he just grabbed a bottle, popped the top off, and slid it to him over the counter.

“There you go,” The bartender smiled. Mickey looked at him for a few seconds. The man was big; tall and fat, with a tattoo of something Mickey couldn’t exactly make out on his shoulder. He had a face filled with rough facial hair, and a scar above his left eye that looked like he had been hit with a beer bottle or something like that. Looked like he had some stories to tell. Mickey took a twenty out of his pocket, intending to slide it across the counter, but the man stopped him by grabbing his wrist. At first, Mickey thought he was gonna have to throw down with some big dude in a bar his first night in Mexico.

_Great, I just made it into fuckin’ Mexico, finally free from the oh so wonderful American Justice System, and I’m probably gonna land myself in a Mexican jail. Fuckin’ hell._

“Keep it,” The man said with a smile on his face. “You have a frown on your face that speaks for itself, you have had a day of sadness. The beer is on me, Mr. Do-we-accept-American-cash.”

Mickey snorted, taking a swig of the beer. “You read expressions? Can you read palms too man? Fortune teller? Gonna tell me my future? Am I gonna marry someone pretty, live in a nice house with a white picket fence and a couple’a dogs?”

 

_Gonna get a little dog with a fuckin’ sweater?_

 

Another swig; a long one. Fuckin’ Ian and him could’ve had that life. He could feel the frown on his face deepen, if that was even possible at this point.

The bartender chuckled at him, “Good one, kid.” He turned around, popped the cap off of another beer and slid it Mickey’s way. “This is the last one that’s on me, maybe you can stop being so bitter.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance,” Mickey muttered under his breath as the man walked towards the other end of the bar to help the other patrons.

After he’d downed both of his beers, he left the bar, sending a polite middle finger over his shoulder to the fortune telling bartender, and he could swear he heard the dude laughing as he walked out.

Getting back in the car, lighting up another cigarette, he got back on the road to find somewhere to sleep for the night. He didn’t really feel like spending the night in a tiny ass car, but if it came to that it came to that. He drove maybe two miles down the road before he found one, pulling over onto the same kind of dirt lot that the bar had. The air smelt like dry dirt and gasoline from all of the cars passing on the highway, it made Mickey a little nauseous. He lit up another cigarette, finishing it off before going inside the motel.

The air inside the motel was no better than outside, it was stale and stuffy and smelt of sex. Mickey walked up to the front desk, “How much for a room, in like, American dollars?”

_Please speak fuckin’ English, please speak fuckin’ English. I should learn how to speak Spanish shouldn’t I?_

“Thirty-five per night,” The skinny man said from behind the counter, his English much choppier than the man at the bars, but still, it was English.

“A’ight,” Mickey murmured, taking out three crumbled twenties and a ten. “That should be enough for two nights.”

_Might as well sleep in a bed for two nights before I have to drive all over bumblefuck Mexico to find a job or some shit._

The man slid him his room key and pointed in the direction of his room down the hallway. Mickey simply nodded at him before turning and going back out to the car to collect his bag of clothes and necessities. He opened the passenger side door, seeing the wig resting on the dashboard.

“Fuck this fucking wig,” He said, grabbing it and roughly shoving it under the passenger side seat. As he went to pull his hand away, he felt something square and smooth under the seat, and it had him wondering what the fuck it was, and if he should even bother picking it up and looking at it.

His curiosity got the best of him, and he picked it up and looked at it. It was a brown leather-bound journal, tied closed by long strings. He turned it around in his hands a couple of times, running his fingers across the pages, but not opening it.

_Was this from the person who owned the car?_

Mickey debated just throwing it out, but something inside of him just wouldn’t let him. So he grabbed the rest of his stuff, headed inside to his room, threw his shit less than gracefully on the floor, and sat down on the disgusting bed that he’s pretty sure had blood and cum stains on it.

He ran his fingers over the leather again. It looked worn and tired, like it had been used for an extended amount of time, open and closed and scratched, but it was still smooth. The ties were fraying at the ends and losing their original dark brown color, now faded into a light grey-brown, but they were still tying the notebook shut just as tight as they would have if it had been brand new. The spine of the notebook was cracked in many places; probably folded over itself on numerous occasions. It looked old, but it was pretty nice to look at.

Mickey didn’t know what it was that possessed him to untie the damn thing, hell, he should’ve fuckin’ thrown it out; it’s not his fuckin’ property. But goddamn if he wasn’t fuckin’ curious to at least read a page, see what kind of secrets this damned thing held. He untied it, unwrapped the long string from around the notebook _one two three four_ times, before opening it. He looked down at the handwriting, the messy, looped handwriting that he knew so fucking well. He felt like he had just been punched in the gut.

 

_day one._

_hey mick. it’s me, ian._

 


	2. day one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: very very brief mention of Monica's suicide attempt

Mickey threw the notebook on the ground as if it were on fucking fire, it honestly might as well have been. What the fuck is this, and why the fuck was it on the floor of the car?

_Do I fuckin’ read it? Do I fuckin’ leave it be? I mean, obviously it was for me, he literally said hi to me in it. But why the fuck didn’t he give it to me or fuckin’ tell me about it or what the fuck._

Mickey stared at the notebook for a few minutes, a longer time than he really meant to stare at it for, and then picked it up by one of the corners, laying down on his back and holding the notebook up over his head. If it was meant for him, he might as well fucking read it, right?

 

_day one._

_hey mick, it’s me, ian._

_uh, i’m not sure what made me sit down and decide to write to you. i guess i’ve always just gotten thoughts out better like this. my mind’s still fuzzy, the meds, yknow. that day is really blurry for me, kinda hard to remember. i remember the break up, i remember sammi with the gun, but after that i just remember going inside and smoking cigarettes until my lungs burned and then going to sleep for awhile. i didn’t even really know why sammi was chasing you with the gun for awhile, no one really told me anything. they still treat me like i’m monica. guilt me like i’m monica. walk on eggshells around me like i’m monica. as if it’s gonna make anything better for me if they treat me like i’m a fucking invalid. all i know is today is day one of you being locked up, and kinda just knowing that makes the world seem a little bit colder. a little more empty. if i could really feel anything right now i know i’d be upset, but these meds make me really numb and my emotions don’t work. they just don’t. i can smile when i know i have to, laugh when i know i have to, i can act really well with my emotions, you think that’s part of the disorder? but other than that? nothing. i don’t really feel anything._

_i wish i was better with words, like real words, the ones that come out of your fucking mouth, like normal god damned people. cause maybe then instead of leaving you i could’ve just told you that i didn’t feel anything at all, and that i didn’t want to take the meds because the mania was better than this…this…this. i don’t know. than being broken. i know i told you i wasn’t broken. but that’s the thing, i’m not broken, the meds make me broken. the meds broke me. i didn’t need these to be okay. i’m perfectly fine without them, mania doesn’t mean shit. i get it i did a few fucked up things that i’m not proud of, and i know i hurt you, and i didn’t want you waiting for me to fuck up next, but these meds, mick, they broke me. they broke my mind, they broke my soul, they broke my fucking will to live._

_“I’m not broken, I don’t need to be fixed, okay? I’m me!”_

 

Mickey almost threw the notebook down again at that. _Will to live._ What if Ian had fucking offed himself while he was in the can? What if he had left and then fuckin’ come back and Ian fucking Gallagher didn’t exist anymore? The world wouldn’t fucking have a meaning, Mickey wouldn’t have a purpose. The thought of Ian six feet fuckin’ under made his stomach turn and twist in the worst kind of ways, images of Ian’s cold body in a casket, images of Ian’s funeral.

He shook his head to try and get rid of the thoughts and kept on reading.

_but. anyways. enough about that._

_eventually i listened to enough hushed conversations around my housed to piece some things together, but i’m still kind of fuzzy on what happened. i know it was attempted murder, i know there were roofies, a moving crate, and it ended with sammi and the gun, chasing you around the neighborhood. but, hearsay. no ones actually told me what happened. yknow. monica 2.0 and all. with my fragile psyche that could shatter at any minute and have me slitting my wrists in the kitchen on some major holiday._

_if i could feel, i don’t know what the feeling would be._

_anger? because you tried to fucking murder someone? sadness? because if i ever got my head screwed on right, we can’t fix things, i can’t fix things, because you’re locked up for fifteen years? (which, i don’t really understand. maybe i don’t understand it because of the constant fog around my brain, but did they have any witnesses, or was it just your word against hers? did they have any evidence or was it all just circumstantial? sammi was chasing you with the gun, how the hell’d you end up getting locked up?) or would i feel…loved? you did it for me, least that’s what i heard debs say to lip one night. you did it cause you wanted to get back at sammi for sending the MPs on me. you risked – you lost – your freedom…for me._

Mickey rested the notebook down beside him. He ran a hand through his hair, taking a cigarette out of it’s pack and lighting it up, taking a long drag and trying to get his head straight.

_Who the fuck cares what the smoking policy is? This place already smells like stale beer and fuckin’ sex, these sheets are stained with cum and blood, I can smoke a fuckin’ cigarette. Kick me out for all I give a fuck._

Getting inside of Ian’s head was intense, especially this version of Ian, the version of Ian that he never understood; not that he ever really understood Ian to a full extent. He thought that maybe Ian had always been this sort of jigsaw puzzle, like once you thought you’d finally figured it out, you realized that half the pieces were in the wrong place and you needed to start over and figure it out again.

Mickey could remember that day fuckin’ perfectly. Ian leaving him, Sammi with the god damned gun.

 

_“Fuck you and your weird ass kid!”_

He chuckled slightly, of course, he’s getting chased by some bitch with a fuckin’ gun and that’s what he says. He remembers Ian barely looking at him when he bolted, dodging bullets as he ran through the neighborhood. He remembers the empty look on Ian’s face most of all. That’s what stands out; the hollowness in his green eyes.

Finishing off the cigarette – man, he’s been smoking a lot recently – he picked the notebook up again, determined to at least finish this day, this one letter, before deciding whether or not to even bother with the other ones.

 

_so here i am. i haven’t really explained myself yet, have i?_

Mickey snorts, “Get to the fuckin’ point, Gallagher.” He whispers to an empty room.

 

_sorry. my thoughts really are cloudy and foggy, and i really am forgetful. maybe eventually i’ll make more sense, i doubt it though. i think i’m going to be this way forever. the meds’re gonna suck the life out of me until i die, a numb, emotionless, zombie. fiona says that in a few weeks i’ll adjust and feel better and be stable and back to myself but what does myself feel like anymore? i can’t remember. i don’t know if anyone can. i don’t think i’ll ever be the same person i was before this shit. i don’t think this fog will ever end._

_fuck i’m off topic again. sorry mick._

_i’m feeling alone. you know how my family is. i’m not strong, and nurturing like fiona. i’m not a genius with no common sense like lip, or a troubled teenage kid like carl. i’m not a hormonal teenage girl like debs, thank god, and i’m not a little kid like liam._

_i’ve always just been ian, the quiet middle kid who could just float and function on his own, could disappear without anyone blinking an eye._

_now i’m just ian, the basket case. the only time they care is when they’re hounding me to take my fucking meds, but i could disappear again for days, weeks, and they probably wouldn’t notice. i could go back to selling myself or dancing at the club and they wouldn’t realize because they’re all wrapped up in themselves and they just don’t fucking care. god, it’s nice to get that out. i’m invisible. i’m not a boy, i’m not even a human, i’m a ghost with a barely beating heart._

_you were my lifeline._

_even when you made me feel weak, that wasn’t you, it was me, thinking i was weak and not being able to handle it. i needed to take it out on someone. i needed to feel normal again, needed to be the same ian again. i know you just cared. it wasn’t you._

“Fuck,” Mickey murmured into the quiet room again. Everything he knew, but didn’t really know was coming back to tell him he was right. Ian, right here, in his fucking messy handwriting, was confirming everything that Mickey had to grasp at straws to assume.

 

_“You can stay here and jerk off into your vitamins or you can come with me, it’s your call.”_

_“I’m sick of your whiny, pussy crap. I don’t need a fucking caretaker, alright? I need the shit-talking, bitch-slapping, piece of South Side trash I fell for, where is he? Where the fuck is he, Mickey?”_

_“Fuck you, and fuck me for giving a shit, you prick.”_

_“Give all the shits you want, but the next time my dick is limp from all the meds don’t go all ‘aw it’s okay, wah, wah,’ just suck it harder, you faggot.”_

Blood. Yeah, they’d fucked each other up a bit but it’s the South Side. Words led to actions. Ian wanted to feel something, wanted to feel normal, apparently. Wanted to feel like he wasn’t some fucking glass doll. Mickey knew he wanted to feel _something;_ Ian had made that clear. But normal was not what he thought of. Ian wanted to feel something other than numb, he wanted to feel normal, he wanted to feel like Ian.

He knew the best way to fuck with Mickey, so he did. And then, they were good. That’s all Mickey wants to remember about that night.

 

_so, here i am, writing you a letter for every day that you’re in prison. at least, that’s the plan. that’s the goal. this is for you. i want you to know everything about what’s going on with me on the outside, and maybe when you get out i’ll give it to you, or maybe i’ll send it to you one day when my life gets really boring and mundane. maybe you’ll throw it out._

_part of me hopes you’ll throw it out._

_i kinda hope you’re sitting in prison hating me, hating me for leaving you right after you told me that you loved me. i guess that wasn’t really me, though. or maybe it is. maybe that’s who i am now._

_part of me hopes you hate me for that day, for just turning and walking into the house when sammi was shooting at you. honestly? i couldn’t even feel scared for you. how fucked up is that, mickey? these meds are fucking me up so bad. i just want to feel again._

_don’t even know why i just walked inside, just kinda did. and like i said, smoked until my lungs hurt, then went to bed until lip woke me up._

_i’m sorry for leaving you the way i did. i’m sorry for leaving you at all. even though i can’t feel it, that’s the one thing i know for sure. i really did that for the best, though, or at least…i think i did? my motives weren’t fucked up. it wasn’t like i did it to hurt you. i did it for you. trust me._

_fuck. how fucking cliché am i, right?_

_but i mean it. i hate these meds. what if i’m a zombie who can’t get it up for his boyfriend forever? what if i stop taking the meds and you gotta sit around like my fucking babysitter, dealing with my crazy shit all the time? i may be foggy, but i know what i did to you. knowing what i did and how much it hurt you and how much i couldn’t stop myself from doing any of it is really fucking heavy and it makes me sick._

_no, really, literally. it really makes me physically sick if i think about it too much._

_sick for you. sick for myself. sick for everything, i guess. but i guess not sick enough to stay on the meds if i have to feel this numb all the time. what kind of love can i give if i can’t feel love?_

_but, here’s day one. you’re officially in prison today, that i know for sure. that’s the one thing lip would tell me. don’t even know if there was a trial. don’t know what’s happening to sammi. no one would tell me._

_i’m just laying in bed staring at the ceiling. i don’t really know how to process it because lately nothing feels real. it doesn’t really feel real that you’re in prison, it feels like you’re still in the milkovich house of horrors a few blocks away, and if i really wanted to, i could numbly walk my way over and hand you this letter. you could turn me away or take me back, and i wouldn’t feel much of a difference. but logically, i know i should be miserable if you’d turn me away._

_but no, prison. cook county prison. maybe i’ll visit you if i ever feel any better, which i doubt. who knows. all i know is this leather notebook is gonna come everywhere with me, and i’m gonna tell you everthing, cause you’re the only one who ever really bothered to listen to me anyway. the only one who ever cared about me. the only one who ever loved me._

_so that was day one. hope you’re doing well on the inside._

_\- ian_

Mickey put the notebook down gently, like the notebook would turn into dust if he put it down too hard. How the fuck could Ian think he would hate him? Ian was everything to him, no matter what the fucking situation was. He was family. Always family.

 

_“I hate the meds. You gonna make me take ‘em?”_

_“You get fuckin’ nuts when you don’t.”_

_“You gonna wanna be with me if I don’t…you used to love me, now you don’t even know who I am. Shit, I don’t even know who I am half the time. You don’t owe me anything.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“The hell does that even mean?”_

Mickey squeezed his stinging eyes shut tightly, silently refusing to let himself cry at the memory. Yeah, he knows that Ian was about to abandon his life for him, he knows what just happened, he knows about the trip to the fuckin’ border, doesn’t make the memory any less fucking painful. He just read that Ian didn’t want to strap him with the fucking bipolar package, but what Ian didn’t fuckin’ realize was that Mickey had already signed up for life; hell Mickey was still signed up for life.

 

_“It means we take care of each other.”_

_“I don’t want you sitting around, worrying, watching me, waiting for me to do my next crazy shit.”_

_“Thick and thin; good times, bad; sickness, health; all that shit._

My next crazy shit, is what he said. That’s what Ian said. Worrying, watching, waiting. He didn’t want Mickey living a life of caring for someone with the disorder. Waiting for the highs and the lows, having to learn about the highs and the lows, and if Ian wouldn’t take his meds…having to worry and wait for all of the shit that he was gonna do to hurt him.

Mickey sighed, wishing he had a six pack or some blow or fucking _something_ to get this edge off, the itch on his skin, the itch that only Ian Gallagher could give him. The itch from knowing, knowing everything.

_Do I keep going? Do I keep trying to understand? Do I even want to fuckin’ know what the hell Ian’d been up to while I was locked up? I want to fuckin’_ understand _everything._

Mickey’d always been smart, numbers, books, shit like that; highschool drop out or not. Always been smart. Except when it came to Ian. And for once, he was tired. He was tired of feeling fuckin’ stupid when it came to Ian. So he stood up, stripped down to his boxers, got into the stiff sheets, lit up another cigarette while he placed his current pack along with another new one on the nightstand next to him, and picked up the notebook again.

He was finally fuckin’ ready.

 

_day two._

_mick, it’s cold out and i wish you were here._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know how I ended up writing a second chapter so fast, but here it is.   
> I'm gonna try to keep uploading semi-regularly, but y'know, sometimes life.
> 
> Well, now that the basic plot was revealed, most of the story is going to be in letter form, with Mickeys' point of view and flashbacks as well. Basically, it's how Ian wrote Mickey a letter for every day he was in prison. (Obviously I'm not going to have exactly the amount of days Mickey was locked up, and I can't write that many chapters, but it'll be a decent amount.)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy the idea and the chapter and everything, and yes, the letter is in fact meant to be in all lowercase.
> 
> (p.s. I just want to note that I have the same type of bipolar disorder as Ian and went through the same type of med adjustments, so a lot of stuff I write is going to have personal knowledge behind it, on top of going on my third year of studying psychology in college.)
> 
> Thank you for reading!! x


	3. day two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: gay slurs

_day two._

_mick, it’s cold out and I wish you were here._

_you always let me put my feet up against your legs when they got too cold, even though you’d bitch and grumble about it under your breath. you’d still let me do it. your legs were always so warm._

_i feel like i’m counting the days until i’m not numb anymore, but it seems hopeless anymore. i think i’m just going to let it swallow me whole. if i smoke enough cigarettes in a row i get a nice headrush, which is decent. part of me wants to just give up and stop taking the meds all together, but my family would lock me up again. i don’t know if i could ever deal with that again._

_fiona’s still making me work at the fucking diner, which is miserable. working under my sister, my fucking dream job. it’s just. i feel like i have no purpose. i’m clearing tables. washing dishes. what kind of a goal is this? at least when i wanted to go into the army it was a goal, it was a purpose. fight for my country. save lives. defend freedom. all that shit. save people._

_hell, i dropped out of high school to dance at a gay club. not that i was a very good student anyway. sure, i tested out of english, but i was a solid c student at best, maybe. school was always lips thing._

_remember when i told you i wanted to get into west point, was taking all those summer classes cause i wanted to be an officer? you thought it was the dumbest thing. it probably was. look at where i am now, look at where my army dream led me. a nice scar on my left hand from trying to hotwire a helicopter and some real, real bad memories from basic. plus all that shit with the MPs and whatever. but, that one night, right after you got outta juvie after kash shot you, remember? we were at the baseball field. you told me that if i wanted to enlist the nearest recruiting station was “like two blocks that way” or something to that extent. man. that seems like so fucking long ago. that passion and determination is gone, i don’t even know where it went or where to find it. where to even start looking for it. i guess the meds took that too._

_“Don’t officers get shot first?”_

Mickey sighed, running his thumb across his lower lip. He didn’t _really_ think it was a dumb idea. What he thought was a dumb fuckin’ idea was Ian shipping himself off to god knows where in fuckin’ bumblefuck Middle East to get a gun shot up his ass. Especially to get to be an _officer_ and get shot _first_. Like, Ian was just gonna work his fuckin’ ass off to get good grades in bullshit classes like _chemistry_ and _trigonometry_ to get shot first in some battle? C’mon. That’s just. Stupid. Okay, so, yeah, maybe Mickey thought it was the dumbest fuckin’ idea he had ever heard. But only because he cared, only because he gave a shit about the stupid redheads’ safety and his fucking life. At least he could admit that now; to himself, to Ian if he wanted to know, to anyone. Back then he wouldn’t even admit it to himself, he rationalized it as thinking voluntarily taking ridiculously hard classes over the summer was stupid and dying for some war that was literally started over _oil_ was stupid. It had nothing to do with caring about Ian fucking Gallagher. Nothing.

Man was seventeen year old Mickey a fuckin’ idiot.

 

_i guess i just want that motivation back, for something, for anything, for life, mostly. i want to wake up in the morning and be glad that i’m breathing again. but instead i’m stuck waking up feeling nothing. wanna do something that matters. even if i don’t._

_sometimes it passes my mind to go back to the club, start dancing again. maybe it didn’t have a purpose, but it made me feel good. powerful. wanted. seen. like finally, people were looking_ at _me, rather than_ through _me. yknow you were the only person who ever really looked at me, mick? i mean, there was mandy. what’s with you milkovichs’ and actually seeing me? but, anyway. being up there, on that stage, eyes on me…it made me feel like i finally mattered. i didn’t think i mattered to you then. i didn’t think i mattered to anyone. still don’t matter to anyone. maybe carl. but definitely you. always you. i don’t even matter to me._

_but, that thought passes quickly. going back to the club, i mean. i hurt you there. you hated it. and i think i hated it too, somewhere. i think the only time i could stomach wearing those fucking shorts, having those men look at me like that – not like i mattered, like i was an object, like they could easily take me, own me, like i was a possession – was when i was manic. i don’t like the attention anymore, i don’t think. i can feel myself fading away again, and it just seems like an old mattress that hasn’t been slept in in awhile, like coming home. it feels like i’m going back to where I belong, in the background, behind the scenes. i miss the mania, the delusion it gave me that attention was something i needed, that i wasn’t just a background character anymore. mania wouldn’t let me fade into the back, mania had to be front and center. i miss feeling like people wanted me, the attention. even if it was just my body, and no one ever stopped to learn my real name (because for fucks sake, i do not look like a fucking curtis)_

_“Talk to you later, Curtis,”_

_“Curtis? ‘S your fuckin’ stage name?”_

_“Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance.”_

That night at the club. Mickey remembered the way Ian practically vibrated from whatever drugs fucking old queens were feeding him every night that he’d been away. The hard way Ian looked at him; cold, no emotion. The shake in his voice. Mickey probably knew from that moment that Ian was sick. No, fuck probably. From that moment, when he saw Ian, his fucking Ian, rubbing his fuckin’ dick all over some faggots crotch he knew something was wrong. He just didn’t know what; didn’t know how serious it was.

Ian was right though. He looked nothing like a fucking Curtis.

 

_they never stopped to learn anything about me. i was just a twink. a twink who could stick his dick in them. for some reason, everyone had some kind of fucking redhead fetish._

_this is turning into a journal rather than letters real fast, fuck. i’m sorry mickey. you don’t wanna listen to me whine and bitch and moan._

_No. I want to listen to everything. Please, don’t stop. Tell me every thought you have, every emotion. I want to know. I want to fucking understand._

_been smoking a lot recently. cigarettes, yeah, but that’s not anything new. been smoking a lot of week. my caretaker/nurse/mother, fiona, says it’s okay, and my genius brother, lip, who clearly knows more about what’s going on in my head than i do is allowing it, so it_ must _be okay, right, mickey? i could just imagine you here for this. i can literally fucking picture it. i’m setting the scene. us sitting around the couch. you, beer in hand. lip would light up a joint and pass it to me, you’d snort around your bottle as you went to take a sip, say something like, “oh, so he can’t have a beer but smoking fucking joints is cool? what’s next? crack? cause i know a guy.”_

_it’d be hilarious. i know i’d find it great. then i could just imagine you fighting with lip and fiona after you guys thought i went to bed. i’d imagine that after that day at the baseball field, the day…the one with the MPs, you would’ve cared still, cared fiercely, like always, but you would’ve treated me like i was normal, not like i was fragile. not like i was broken. not like the rest of them do. you would’ve let me live my own life, figure my shit out myself, but still watching out for me. fuck, mickey. fuck i miss you so much._

Mickey laughed, really laughed, for a few seconds. Ian knew him too well. _“Whats next, crack?”_ Yeah, sounds like something he’d definitely say. Fighting with Lip and Fiona? Definitely something he’d do.

 

_“Who the fuck gets high on lithium? No one.”_

_“So?”_

_“So, I can’t get ‘em. I can get you crack, crystal, horse, E, but this shit? No. There’s no market for it.”_

_“I’ll take some fucking crack.”_

Mickey shook his head – he kept doing that, trying to shake the memories out of his head. Most of the time he knew what was gonna come playing in his head like a movie. He didn’t want to remember this.

 

_“Frank used to drink like this. When Monica was around and they would fight. He would angry drink. Never worked. He always came back to her. You can’t drink him away, Mickey. It won’t work.”_

Mickey knew he was gonna go back. He cared; loved; Ian too much to just…not go back to him. But part of him didn’t want to, he was scared, terrified. He just wanted to stay home and drink, stay drunk, stay high, forget for a little while. When Debbie Gallagher waltzed through his front door, demanding that he get her Ian’s meds because Ian had flushed them, he was just about ready to knock over a pharmacy to get them for him. Fuck going the legal way and paying a fortune, just steal ‘em.

She kept begging Mickey to go see Ian; like Ian hadn’t been calling him all day. But something in him snapped when she said that. _Angry drink._ Was he angry drinking? Or was it scared drinking? It was more that he was scared to go, scared to deal with this, scared that he couldn’t handle it; not for his sake, but for Ians’. Ian needed someone who knew how to take care of him, knew how to help, and what if that couldn’t be Mickey? It was better to stay drunk and stay away and not make anything worse for Ian.

But man, something about getting compared to _Frank fucking Gallagher_ just really had him pissed the fuck off. So she left, and that night, he was back at the Gallagher house. He loved Ian, he loves Ian, and he had decided that he was going to figure out whatever he needed to in order to handle bipolar disorder. Bipolar disorder could get fucked, it clearly never met a Milkovich.

 

_“Sorry I’m late.”_

_i dreamt about you last night. dreamt that there was no bipolar, no army, no club, nothing. but we were in your bed, in your house, waking up. i woke up first, always did. you would sleep until two pm if you could. I like having the full day. mandy was there. that’s what woke me up, the smell of bacon. mandy cooking. you were laying there on your side, your left cheek on my chest and your “fuck” hand spread across my stomach. your mouth was parted, small breaths coming out in warm little puffs on my chest._

_hold on. i have to go to work. i’ll be back in a few hours. time for my morning joint to at least make the numbness tolerable, i guess._

_it’s been seven hours. if i could sigh through a letter i would be, but i’m here again. how strange is it that i feel more at home and less lonely just writing to you, just with this notebook in my hands, than i do with my entire family, in my whole house? but work was just shit. like usual. for no reason. fiona trying to balance between being my superior as my boss and my superior as my sister/caretaker/nurse/mother/superhero. whatever._

_back to the dream, i’m sorry i had to stop mick._

_but you were just sleeping, so fucking peacefully on my chest. you were so beautiful, fuck, you’re so beautiful. i remember wanting to just watch you for hours, which you always hated (as you can tell, weed makes my dreams real vivid and real easy to remember) and i was just gonna try and go back to sleep, have a nice day in, before mandy busts into the fucking room with a,_

_“morning, queers!” which is such a typical mandy thing to say, right?_

_you started groaning and shit and sat up, telling her to fuck off. you guys started with your normal bickering, lots of “assface,” and “skank” and “dickbreath” floating around in the air. not sure which insult came from who._

_but when i came out of the room the house looked exactly the same, svetlana was on the couch, feeding yevgeny. iggy was sitting at the table drinking a 40oz and ripping a bong at what had to be like ten in the morning, and mandy had just made eggs and bacon. you and me grabbed some plates and piled some food and went back to your room, our room? was it ever our room? and ate in silence. but the comfortable silence we always had. the one where we would just kind of look at each other and you’d make me blush a little, cause even though it’s been so long in the back of my head i’m still fifteen, and you’re still mickey milkovich, about to bash my skull in with a tire iron. in the back of my head i’m still fifteen, and you’re still mickey milkovich, and i somehow got lucky enough to fuck mickey milkovich?_

_maybe i’m a leprechaun after all._

_but we ate in our silence, again, not the normal people silence, our silence, the mickey and ian silence. our silence. and i had no idea where terry was, i didn’t wanna know. but, i could tell there was no bipolar. i could feel it. i had no scars on my hands, so no army. which would mean no club._

_we finished eating and we just laid back down, and mick, you fucking held my hand and it was perfect. maybe it was a parallel universe. maybe that’s where we’d be if my brain never fucked up and screwed us over. but i’d like to believe that’s the ending we deserve. or at least the life we deserve, cause i don’t think it would end there._

_you kissed me and it was the same feeling that i always got when we kissed. like my stomach was mixing with my heart, and yknow, the butterflies weren’t just in my stomach anymore they were in my heart too, little bastards. like, the real sweet, sappy kisses made me feel like that, with all the butterflies._

_and you told me that you loved me in a hushed whisper, like it was a secret, except I knew it wasn’t. but that one was, that one whispered “i love you” was a secret just for me, and the way you said it had my throat choking on itself._

_and when i opened my eyes i was back in my bedroom. and you weren’t there. it was just me._

_and i swear to fuck i cried, mickey. i fucking cried. and it’s the first time i’ve felt anything since that day at the baseball field._

_fuck. i fucking miss you so much. i’m so sorry._

Mickey didn’t even realize he was crying until he closed the notebook and put it under the pillow opposite to him and saw that his hands were shaking. He blinked a couple of times, and felt that his eyelashes were wet. He ran a hand down his face, silently cursing into the room, before wiping his eyes and cheeks on his forearms, trying to get them as dry as possible.

 

_That’s enough for tonight. I’ll just. Read more tomorrow. I’m done for tonight. That was too fuckin’ much._

 

He took another cigarette from the pack, lighting it and smoking in silence, so many thoughts running through his head that it felt like nothing was there. It felt like his mind was silent. 

It felt like someone had just released a piranha inside of his lower intestine and it was slowly chewing its way through his organs. As he slowly smoked the cigarette, inhaling deeply with every drag, he kept feeling tears drip down from his eyes, and he was done trying to stop it.

This was Ian, the love of his fucking life. He was allowed to cry over him. He deserved that much.

 

_day three_

_i went to see yev today, he looks so much like you it’s kind of scary._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...have no idea how I keep updating like every day. I should be doing schoolwork.
> 
> Also, right now this is kind of in between s5 and s6, so it's not exactly canon compliant.   
> There's also gonna be things throughout the fic that the writers conveniently didn't write in so I'm going to do it for them. Because I'm nice. So, the entire fic isn't going to be canon compliant, but most of it will be.


	4. day three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: slight self harm mention, gay slur.

_day three_

_i saw yev. he looks so much like you it’s almost scary._

_when i saw it i almost left, i really almost bolted. i almost couldn’t handle it. but svetlana’s already mad at me, blames me for you getting locked up. which, i guess she’s not wrong. with her whole, “you leave me with no one to feed baby. i have to come up with my own way. i have jailbird doing jobs on inside to help but it does not do much. it is your fault, orange boy.” i’m half afraid she’s gonna pull out the claw hammer again._

_i wonder what kind of jobs she has you doing on the inside. i wonder if it’s anything that’s gonna get you more time if you get caught. of course it is._

_i practically had to beg her to let me see yev at all. still don’t think she trusts me after the whole. uh. indiana thing. but i had to. i love him. i love that baby, i love that little piece of you, that little piece of our patchwork family. our perfect little dysfunctional family, but we worked pretty well. until i fucked it up. but i had to see him, i needed to. i missed him._

_my family doesn’t know i went to see him, they think that just because you’re locked up, i’ve literally just forgotten you existed. and i guess i act that way to them. it’s for the best. that sounds fucked up, doesn’t it? it’s that i know how they’ll be. you know how they’ll be. they’ll just tell me to forget about you and i don’t want to hear that, i just don’t. lip’ll make some smart ass comment about how i could “do better than a milkovich” but i’m almost positive he’s still hung up on mandy even though he’s been fucking his professor and he’s claiming he’s in love with her. does lip even fall in love with people that aren’t your sister?_

_i know he never admitted it, but he really did love mandy. he was such a fucking prick, and he did shitty things and i used to get pissed at him for it all the time, but he loved her somewhere. i think gallaghers just don’t know how to show love._

_there it is. gallaghers. gallaghers don’t. gallaghers this gallaghers that. you don’t fuck with the gallaghers. it’s like our last name is some sort of different species, like if you were born a gallagher you’re not actually human, and you’re part of some cult. our last name makes us different than everyone else. it’s kind of fucking annoying. for once i’d like to just be ian. i’d like to not be “oh, he’s a gallagher”_

_i remember once even mandy said something like, “a gallagher looking down on me, no way.” or something like that i don’t know. but i’d like to just be ian, instead of the middle gallagher kid._

_you think that my family treats me so different because they know i’m only half like them? because franks not my father, i’m really not the same kind of gallagher as them? sometimes i don’t mind. but i do others. i wish maybe they’d treat me like i wasn’t literally the redheaded stepchild. well, redheaded half brother. same thing._

Mickey always hated the way Ian was treated in that fucking house. How they’d practically step through him like he was a ghost. How they barely looked for him when he was gone, how it was him and Mandy who did it. Mickey didn’t mind looking for Ian, but what the fuck was everyone else doing? Yeah, the jackass brother had come around asking questions but how long had Ian been gone by then? 

It felt like a fucking eternity.

_but yeah, lip would make a fucking rude comment and i’d try to deck him in the mouth (probably to try and feel again, mostly. but everyone’s really tired of me trying to break bones in my hand or burn myself or slice my face while shaving just to feel something other than numb, so they probably would just call me a selfish prick again.). fiona would give me that soft look of pity she always does, like, the one that says, “oh honey, you need to move on, that boy was trouble, he didn’t deserve you.” and i can never really tell if it was a stereotype towards you or a general thing about boys because i’m her younger brother._

_carl would be psyched, he loves you. not just cause you’re some badass, but he always knew how much you cared about me and how much i cared about you, and carl’s protective over our family the same way you’re protective over your family. carl’d kill for us. you and carl have a lot in common. guess that’s why you guys are both my favorites._

_debbie has a lot going on, did i tell you she’s knocked up? don’t know what’s going on with her. i’m trying to stay out of it and quiet because i guess, her life and all, but fiona’s pissed. don’t know how debbie’d feel. she always had a soft spot for you._

_i think it’s mostly lip and fiona i don’t want to tell. cause i’d deck lip in the mouth and me and fiona would get into a screaming match and i hate doing that in front of liam and carl and debs. i know carl’s fourteen and debs is fifteen, but still. i don’t wanna fight in front of them._

He knew about the general dislike that Ian’s family had for him, knew about the looks they gave him when he was practically living there, knew that they didn’t think he was fit to take care of the brother they always fucking ignored anyway. So he ignored _them._ Ian wanted him there. And no matter where Ian wanted him, he’d go. Fuck, he followed him to that fucking club. To the queer party. Anywhere.

 

_people always had this general stereotype for you, mickey. because you were a milkovich. i guess our last names worked in the same way. i was born a gallagher, you were born a milkovich. we were both born into our respective breed-cults, destined to be stereotyped and brainwashed by our own families into thinking that there’s a special code you have to follow in order to fit your own family name. but mickey. no one ever saw you for who you are. yeah, you’re fucking badass and you’d kick the shit out of anyone who deserved it, but you weren’t terry. they based you off of terry. and you were nothing like him. you were fucking kind. opened your heart to a floppy ginger kid and grew. you grew to love me, and you took care of me, but even though people saw how much you cared and loved and handled me, they couldn’t get past “milkovich” and it’s so fucked. it’s so fucked how your last name can make or break you._

_even with mandy. she’s so loving, constantly giving her heart to anyone who showed her any sort of affection because she just needed love, but everyone just called her a slut because she was a milkovich. she’s the kindest person i’ve ever met and people couldn’t get past calling her mandy skankovich. it used to make me nauseous. if only people got to know you guys._

_even iggy. he just sat there and got high and drank 40oz and watched reruns of stupid cartoons. for fucks sake he watched yev all the time and he wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t smoke a cigarette, wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t get high, cause he didn’t want to do it around the baby. he told funny jokes and he was just so accepting of everything._

_milkovich. you guys just looked rough, were tough and could hold your own, but had terry looming over your heads. so whenever someone thought about you guys, they ran._

_milkovich. gallagher._

_maybe that’s why neither one of us had any friends in high school._

_maybe it’s because i just always preferred to be alone, or because i always stuck by lip, and he was just kind of a pompous jerk and no one really wanted to be around him._

_maybe it’s because you really did sell drugs and kick the shit out of people who didn’t pay up, or because you were in and out of juvie all the time._

_maybe it’s a lot of things._

_but that’s not what this is about, is it? i wanted to tell you about your son. that’s what’s important here. yev. because i know how much you love and care about him, even if it took you a little bit. extenuating circumstances. but you did it, and i’m proud of you. you’re a good father._

“Good father?” Mickey spat out. He couldn’t believe that Ian had even written the words. What kind of a “good father” gets themselves locked up for fifteen years, and then runs off to Mexico without him? Kid won’t even know his father. It’s probably good, though. Can’t fuck up like Terry if you’re not even there to fuck up like Terry.

 

_Fucking best thing for that kid that I was locked up in there. That he won’t know me. Good thing._

 

_so i met svet at kev and vees. yev’s gotten big, he can make himself stand up if he uses things, and he can do more than just babble, sort of. he says “mama” and we got him saying something close to “dada” today. it was more like “dabla” but we’re getting there. svet even sat at the kitchen table while i took yev into their living room to play with some of the toys on the floor; she didn’t threaten me with the hammer like she was worried i was gonna run off when i started walking away. she just watched from the table and i played with the toys and him a bunch and he kept giggling. he smiled at me all day and it was one of the most beautiful things i’d ever seen._

your _son looking up at me, smiling at me._

_although i think he secretly was mocking me cause of my funny orange hair. he kept pulling at it all day. i think he thought i was funny looking. i’ll take it though, just want him to like me, just want to be a part of his life._

_but he really is you. making fun of my hair. but the first time he says firecrotch i’m out._

Mickey let out a laugh that sounded more like a sigh, thinking about his son and the love of his life, hanging out, watching fucking Sesame Street or some shit together. Just his boys, chilling. He missed Ian like a motherfucker, but he missed Yev too. Glad Ian knew, glad he knew enough to include Yev and go see him. To think, Ian thinks Yev secretly hates him. Ian was practically more of a father to that kid than Mickey was. That kid has loved Ian since he was born.

If Mickey could go back to the first time Ian got to hold Yev, he might just take a video to keep forever. Ian’s eyes widened slightly, turning slightly glassy like he was tearing up, on the verge of crying. The green eyes filled with love and adoration; Mickey thought he had never seen Ian look at anything like that. He could’ve sworn that the baby stared back, practically straight into Ian’s heart or soul or something, but there was some kind of bond there. And Ian had been Yev’s favorite ever since. Ian would be an idiot to ever think otherwise.

Mickey cracked a smile when he thought about Yev making fun of Ian’s hair though. He could see that, I mean, after all, he _was_ Mickey’s son. His firecrotch days were soon to come.

 

_“You ready to go again, or uh, you need some time, firecrotch?”_

 

It was probably Mickey’s favorite name to call Ian, maybe just because it was the first one, or because when Ian was younger it used to make him blush. Ian’s blush, it was one of the hardest things to get, but when Mickey got it, man was it a sight. His face red, biting his lip, avoiding eye contact. Sometimes Mickey got distracted with the way Ian looked on an average day, or in bed, that he forgot small things like that. How adorable Ian was.

 

_i really think svetlana’s gonna let me do it again. she’s gonna let me come and hang out with yev again and then i can keep coming back and writing to you about him._

_i glued a picture of me and yev to the next page. sorry it’s not an original picture, i kept the original and went to the library to photocopy the other. but i thought maybe you’d want the picture. again, i don’t know when you’re gonna get this, so maybe you’ll want to see the present, maybe the near past, maybe the far past. i don’t know._

Mickey immediately flipped to the next page, looking at the picture of his favorite fucking guys. The picture was crappy printer paper quality, the ink was a little smudged because Ian had probably folded it up and put it in his pocket before he let the ink dry. Ian cut his hair, the red dye was gone and it was back to its copper orange color. He had a very small smile on his face, not the usual Ian smile that made his face light up, his eyes crinkle and shine, the one where he tilted his head slightly to the side and lifted his shoulders a little bit. Mickey could just tell that Ian wasn’t feeling the way he should. Mickey could practically feel the lack of emotion that Ian had written about roll off of him through the picture.

Yev. He’d gotten so big. He was sitting in Ian’s lap; they were sitting on the floor, Ian’s legs crossed in front of him. Yev’s arms were out at the side, and he was smiling a toothless smile, but it looked as if he had just let out a yell, as if he had just been tickled. Mickey would’ve bet money that Ian had just tickled his son. Fucking bastard. He flipped back to the page with the rest of the letter on it.

_mick. i’m happy. i think. if i can remember properly. not manic happy, mickey. real happy, the real kind of happy that you made me, not the sick kind. i don’t feel a lot of it, but i can still feel it. i’ve felt it. yev made me feel it. the idea of svet trusting me again made me feel it. i think i’m gonna be okay._

_and to think, you never thought you could help me be okay._

Mickey’s jaw almost dropped at the last sentence. He always knew Ian would be okay, he knew the meds would settle in and he’d stop being so emotionless. Or at least he hoped. Mickey knew that he’d be there until the end though, and no, Mickey never thought he could help. He felt helpless the entire time, and he couldn’t even imagine how Ian must’ve felt. 

But what the fuck did he mean by helping him? How the fuck did Mickey help him, how the fuck _could_ Mickey help him from prison? From behind metal fucking bars, when Ian at this point, hadn’t even visited him yet?

Whatever the fuck he did for Ian though, man he’s glad he did.

 

_day four_

_svet asked me a really hard question. i don’t know what to do here, mick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided writing this was better than doing all of my end of the semester work that's due next week.  
> I'm going to fail my semester because of this.


	5. day four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: panic attack, mentions of self harm.
> 
> This chapter is mostly flashbacks of things that weren't written in canon, so I did the writers job for them.

_day four_

_svet asked me a really hard question. i don’t know what to do here, mick._

_she softened the blow really, she came over when she knew no one would be home, cause she knew no one in my family knows that i see yev (unfortunately), and she asked me to babysit. she just walked in and plopped him in my lap while i was sitting on the couch and said, “orange boy, you watch yevgeny. i need to go buy food.”_

_i’m still not feeling much of anything. but it sparked that little tiny bit of feeling that i think i’m getting back in my chest and it was really nice. so she just left him here, like, with complete trust and it was great. he mostly just napped really, but he slept on my chest while i laid on the couch watching him and i guess i just have a thing for watching cute milkovich boys sleep, cause you both look really beautiful while you sleep._

_and when she came to pick him up, she was gathering him all up and everything, getting all of his stuff together in the bag she left with me and picked him up from my chest with a little smile on her face, she was saying goodbye, right, and she ended it with, “jailbird wants to see you.”_

_right as she was about to walk out the door. she was seriously about to leave right after saying that. just, hey! mickey wants to see you, and, what._

_she kept going on about how much you want to see me, how i’m already on your visitors list (how didn’t i know that?) and that you even refused to see yevgeny if i didn’t come see you (which i seriously don’t believe, cause you love your fucking son)_

_and fuck mick. i told her i’d think about it and she left so here i am and i’m sitting on my bed, alternating between writing this and staring at my door._

_i promised myself i’d come visit you when i stopped feeling so numb. but i’m not ready. i’m still so fucking numb, i’m still a zombie mickey and i don’t want you to see me like this again, i don’t want you to worry about me again. don’t want you to worry about me when you literally can’t do anything about it. can’t even hold my fucking hand. can’t even touch me at all. you’ll spend so much time thinking about how numb i am, i know you. it’ll take up all of your time, and then you’ll get angry at yourself for not being able to do anything about it and you’ll hurt someone else because you’re so mad, or you’ll hit a wall and hurt yourself. i don’t know which is worse. you’d either get more time or thrown in fucking solitary for a little bit, or hurt yourself. i don’t want you to do either._

_but i don’t know how to visit you. i don’t even know how to fake it. don’t think i ever knew how to fake anything around you. never have, probably never will be able to, in any sort of universe. you believe in parallel universes mickey? i do. i wish i had asked you that before you went away._

_i can’t just tell svet that i’m not feeling anything. i just…can’t. i don’t know how to explain it. i guess it’s a pride thing. maybe. fuck. why am i so bad with using my god damned words. i can’t just go, “svet, sorry, i can’t really see him, you see, my meds are still taking their sweet ass fucking time adjusting and i’m really not feeling anything at all so i can’t go visit him because he won’t get any reaction out of me, and i’m probably just going to make everything worse. sorry.”_

_how well would that really go over?_

_part of me also doesn’t want to come. not because of you, because any day of the week, if i was feeling, i would want to come see you. always want you. but i want you to hate me, want you to be over me. want you to tell me to fuck off, that you’re done with me. want you to move on with your life and stop worrying about me, and my shit, and all of my fucking baggage, and whatever else you’ve had to go through because of me._

_yknow what. fuck it. i’m calling svet. i’m sorry that i’m gonna be so hollow. i hope you tell me to fuck off mick. i’m gonna come see you._

_Ian was sitting at the other side of the glass window, toying with the wire of the phone. Mickey hadn’t seen him in, fuck, maybe a week and a half? Two weeks? It seemed like forever. He looked paler than normal, bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t really been sleeping as well as he should have. His face looked just as blank as Mickey remembered it._

_Mickey sat down on the other side of the glass cautiously; as if he sat down too fast Ian might run away like a scared animal. He picked up the phone, finally making eye contact with Ian, who did the same. The green eyes were still empty._

_“Hey, man,” Mickey greeted. He couldn’t help but fight a smile, seeing Ian in person was a blessing in itself. He missed him like a motherfucker. “How’ve you been?” Ian stared at him with wide eyes, blank face, and shrugged slightly, the movement shaking his entire body. His eyes flickered down to his hands and then back up to Mickey’s face._

_“How’s the inside?” Ian’s voice was monotone, not like him. Mickey wondered if he was depressed, if Svetlana had literally dragged the fucking kid out of bed to come here. Fuck, he wasn’t really gonna stop seeing his son if he didn’t see Ian. It was an empty fucking threat, was the bitch that fucking dumb?_

_“Y’know, three meals a day, a bed, heat. More than I got growing up,” Mickey ran his fingers across his upper lip. “You been takin’ your meds?”_

_Ian nodded. No eye roll, no snarky comment about how he didn’t need a fucking nurse. Nothing. Just a small, short nod and a continuously blank stare. It made Mickey shift uncomfortably in his seat. Ian had never been one to just fucking stare like that._

_“How you feelin’?”_

_“Same answer as usual. Not.” Ian said. Same monotone voice._

_“That’s uh,” Mickey shrugged. “Better than usual, right?” Another shrug. “Well, it’s fuckin’ good to see you man. Nice to see someone who gives a shit, and not just someone who needs me for fuckin’ money. Though it is nice to see my god damned kid every once and awhile.”_

_It looked like Ian smiled a little bit at that, but before Mickey could even figure it out, it was gone, the ghost of whatever it was left and replaced with the blank, hollow face that Ian had become._

_“Uh, well, man,” Mickey coughed awkwardly. Fuck was he glad Ian was here. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable it was, it didn’t matter that he just sat there with a blank stare, barely talking. It was nice to know he was alive, in one piece, taking his meds. The blankness most likely meant that he was in fact taking his meds regularly. “I’m glad you came, Firecrotch.”_

_It’d been awhile since either one of them had heard the familiar nickname. It felt sort of foreign coming out of Mickey’s mouth, but also natural. Ian nodded, and Mickey guessed that the ghost smile was in fact Ian’s new smile, hopefully just for now at least. Hopefully it goes back to normal, got back to the best smile he’d ever seen._

_The buzzer went off and Ian went to stand up to leave, but Mickey stopped him._

_“Wait!” Ian turned to him, sat back down again slowly, and stared at him again, waiting for him to talk._

_“I…” Mickey choked a little on his own words. “I uh, I love you.”_

_Ian’s eyes widened in the most minuscule way, so small that no one would notice; if Mickey wasn’t so in tune to everything Ian Gallagher he wouldn’t have noticed._

_Before Ian could have had a chance to reply, Mickey put the phone down and left, closing his eyes tightly and silently begging tears not to form in his eyes. Not in fucking prison. Not here of all places._

Mickey remembered the first visit. How cold Ian was. He didn’t even feel like Ian had been cold towards _him_ , he felt like he could just feel the cold coming off Ian as if he were made out of ice. Like he was a corpse.

There goes the Ian corpse imagery again.

He couldn’t believe Ian had come that day, he thought Ian hated him. After that day, he didn’t even think hated him; he could tell that Ian was feeling numb again. Mickey just knew. He was so in tune to Ian’s emotions and thoughts that it felt like a second nature to just know when he’s not being himself. Mickey had just hoped that Ian would be feeling a little better – better enough to at least talk about something, _anything._

Ian fucking Gallagher, the most ridiculous man on the planet, though. He really thought Mickey didn’t already worry about him all the time? Wish he wasn’t on the outside constantly trying to get Ian back, watching out for him, trying to fucking help take care of him? Mickey constantly thought about Ian, constantly worried about Ian, constantly wished he was with Ian, everything in his brain was _Ian Ian Ian Ian._ From the day the motherfucker woke him up with a tire iron until the day Mickey dies, probably. It’ll always be Ian.

He also seriously thought Mickey could hate him. Not for anything. Not for leaving him for the army, not for anything he did while he was manic (especially anything he did while he was manic), not for breaking up with him, not for leaving him at the border. Ian could slice him ear to ear and Mickey would gasp and try to tell Ian the best way to get away with murder.

There’s nothing in this world Ian could do to make Mickey hate him.

Mickey also remembers what happened after that visit.

 

_Mickey’s chest hurt, was he having a fucking heart attack? It kept clenching and feeling like it was going to burst out of his chest at any minute. He felt like he couldn’t breathe; like he’d just ran five miles uphill. He went back to his cell, thank god his cellmate wasn’t there, because he felt like he was about to have some sort of a fucking breakdown._

_He couldn’t find air, couldn’t feel his fingertips. He could hear the desperate gasps he was making, but they sounded so fucking far away, why did everything look so far away? Every time he opened his eyes the world looked so blurry, so far away, his head spinning; so he kept them shut, continuously gasping for air that wouldn’t come._

_His heart kept that fast beat, sending painful tingles through his body, was it anxiety? Is that what that fucking is? He still couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel the bed under him, he needed to find something to hold on to, but he couldn’t move. He felt locked down._

_He pinched the skin of his forearm; he could feel that. So he did it again, harder. He could feel that more. He continued to pinch his arm until it was the only thing he could focus on; his breath coming back, his head not spinning, the painful tingles dulling down, but still slightly present. He was back._

_Ian. He wasn’t okay and there was nothing he could do about it. He said he was taking his meds, but how the fuck could Mickey even know that? Not like the fucking Gallagher’s really gave a shit about Ian. The fucking kid disappeared for how long and no one went looking for him? Ian could be flushing his meds to get everyone to back off, could be depressed, could be about to start bouncing off the walls like he was on meth again. He could really get fucking hurt this time._

_Ian, the only person Mickey would ever fucking love. Ian, out there, living a life that’s probably numb, probably dull. Ian hated dull. Mickey knew Ian hated dull, knew everything about Ian._

_Mickey was in this shit for the long run. Would make it so when he got out, if Ian would let him try again, he’d try again. After years of letting Ian down and consistently proving that he wasn’t sticking around, he just wanted to prove that he really was in it for the long run. Maybe he wanted to feel some of the pain for Ian, try and feel for Ian. But he also needed to somehow show Ian that this was it, Ian was it for him._

_So the first chance he got, Mickey bought a can of boot polish and a bottle of baby oil from commissary, ripped the sleeves off of his shirt, cut a part of the can off of the top with the shiv he kept on him in case he ever runs into Terry in the joint, and pressed it and bent it until it was flat over most of the top of the can._

_Soaked half of one of the sleeves in the baby oil at the bottom of the can and used a match to light it up, saving the black shavings the match paper collects. Mixed that black shit up with some water, grabbed the cleanest needle he could find, and got to work on his chest. And maybe he let a tear or two fall._

_And maybe it hurt like a bitch._

_And maybe he thought he was feeling this for Ian._

_And maybe he ended up with Ian Gallagher’s name tattooed over the left side of his chest._

_But it was okay, because he loved Ian Gallagher, and he felt it for Ian Gallagher, because Ian Gallagher couldn’t feel at all._

_day five_

_i’m so fucking sorry for so many things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically supposed to be the first visit between Mickey and Ian, because in canon they mention that when Svetlana's trying to convince Ian to go see Mickey, he says he won't see Mickey "again". So, first visit. Eventually I'll write about actual scenes in s6 when I can rewatch that hell of a season.
> 
> I've actually done some schoolwork. Not enough, not nearly enough.  
> This is easier to write than a paper about the fucking cold war though?
> 
> Next chapter is mostly going to be a letter about Ian's feelings about the visit. I thought about combining the two, but this one just got out of hand real fast and ended up much longer than I expected it to.


	6. day five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: depersonalization

_day five_

_i’m so fucking sorry for so many things._

_that visit…holy fuck i’m so sorry._

_i wanted to talk to you, you gotta know that. i need you to know that. but i just…couldn’t. you sat down, and fuck mick, i felt like i had no control of my body. like I was watching myself from outside, from the second you sat down_

_you walked out of those doors, looked at me from behind that fucking glass, and there was this…weird pang of something inside of me. it was like this raw fucking anger. anger i haven’t felt since…since I don’t know? since i tried to slice up mandy’s piece of shit boyfriend? but this pure rage and all i wanted to do was punch the fucking glass between us as many times as i could, until it shattered. i wanted to shatter the glass and drag you out and get you outside. free._

_but as soon as i could feel that, i slowly felt my entire body pulsate, i got nauseous and lightheaded, and i could feel myself float away from my body. it felt like i was looking at everything from the outside. mickey it felt like a dream. i was numb and just watching us, and i don’t understand what happened._

_and every time i moved it felt like slow motion, i haven’t felt like that since i was in the hospital and they has me doped up on sedatives. i was so terrified, mickey it was so fucking weird i barely knew what to do. i needed to pay attention to you, but i was numb, and floating away from my body like a god damned helium balloon at the same time, and shouldn’t all of that be enough to scare me? shouldn’t i be scared?_

_you talked and you looked so worried, and i just tried to cling on to every word like it was the last time i was ever gonna hear you speak again, but i could barely get words out of my mouth, it half felt like i couldn’t even control what was coming out of my mouth. but really, the only thing i could think of was how tired and stressed out you looked when you were staring at me. you still had that look of pure love in your eyes for me the entire time, no matter how unresponsive i was. kept asking how i was, kept caring, even though you should hate me. i should have done something to make you hate me. but i couldn’t even think about that, because i was torn between the overwhelming sensation of a dream and trying to focus on everything_ you _that i couldn’t do anything to make you hate me. or maybe subliminally i’m just selfish and don’t want you to hate me. i don’t really know at this point._

_you told me you loved me again. i think that’s when i was finally in control of my body again, when everything started to feel kind of real again. but you were walking away._

_i’m so sorry i can’t say it. i think i’m defective._

_on the ride home, svet was laughing, saying that i could have at least acted like i felt something for you and “orange boy, i did not expect you to more on so fast” in some kind of a russian teasing voice. it still came out fucking harsh though._

_i just mumbled out that i couldn’t feel because i was tired of listening to her while we drove in kevs truck. i think she understood because it shut her up._

_when i got home i did whatever kind of research i could (starting with “what does it mean when i feel like i’m dreaming when i’m awake” and most of the answers had to do with getting high so that was a bust) but eventually i found something, and the weird thing that happened to me was called depersonalization or something. i was stressed, it fucked with my anxiety really bad, and it was a high stress situation combined with the fact that i was already numb and everything, and what i read basically said that there was so much build up that when it happened, you know, me visiting you, and trying to say something to either make it better or fake hating you or anything, that my mind snapped and couldn’t handle it and it like. basically tried to run away from itself to cope. i think._

Mickey shuffled around in the scratchy motel bed sheets. When he inhaled again, he thought the room smelled worse than it did before. He wished he had a six-pack, it would go along with drowning in his sorrows and lost fucking love through fucking letters that’re over a year old. He checked the alarm clock next to the bed – a cheap, shitty motel with a fucking alarm clock? Not buying it, but okay – and it was close to three am. Fuck, Mickey needed to get some sleep. He promised himself almost an hour ago that he was going to read two letters and then be done, even put the notebook down to the side under the pillow next to him and turned off the light.

He put his head down on the pillow but it felt like a rock, everything felt too scratchy, his skin felt too hot and his mind kept running. He stared into the black of the motel room, focusing on the ceiling. His mind kept tracing its way back to Ian. Was Ian thinking about him? Fuck, what was Ian doing past midnight? Was he asleep? Was he back in bed with that piece of shit boyfriend he had? Or was he alone in bed, same position that Mickey’s in? Was he writing more letters to Mickey?

Eventually, the thoughts had tortured him enough that he picked the notebook back up and ended up here, on letter number five. And well, he’s glad he fucking did. He’s glad he got this fucking explanation, because when Ian had visited that first time…it just wasn’t him. It wasn’t Ian sitting there, talking to him. It felt like Invasion of the fucking Body Snatchers is what it fucking felt like. It was fuckin’ weird.

 

_at least that’s how i understood it. i’m no doctor, or therapist, or anything. “gallaghers don’t do therapy.”_

Mickey snorted again. Yeah. Something he’s heard way too many fuckin’ times. He’d suggested once, or maybe a couple times, that Ian should go to therapy, and it felt like an instinct reaction, like a chant coming out of his mouth. Before Mickey had even gotten the chance to finish his fuckin’ sentence, Ian would chant out, “Gallagher’s don’t do therapy.”

And the more Mickey would bring it up, the more reluctant and tired Ian sounded when he said it, like he wanted to give up, like he wanted to go, but he was trying to hang on to whatever kind of Gallagher morals he had left.

Mickey had done his research – for fucks sake, he stole books on fucking mental shit to understand, googled the fuck out of everything, making sure he used websites with endings like .org or .edu so it was fuckin’ legit and reliable. He showed Ian that bipolar disorder was treated best with meds and therapy, showed him the proof, showed him all of the evidence right there in fucking front of him, but every time it was the same sighed out, weak chant.

 

“Gallagher’s don’t do therapy.”

 

Doesn’t mean Mickey didn’t get it. Plenty of things Milkovich’s didn’t do. Don’t snitch, don’t give up on family, don’t talk to fucking cops. Milkovich’s probably don’t go to therapy either, it’s probably one of their moral codes. But this was Ian. It was fuckin’ different.

Mickey wonders if Ian ever went to see a therapist.

 

_i wonder why gallagher’s don’t do therapy. we probably should. carl’s in fucking juvie, fiona has this desire to be needed and wanted so bad that she keeps hopping from destructive guy to destructive guy (like i’m really one to talk, though), but she’s already running a house full of kids that aren’t even hers, debs is knocked up at fifteen, lip is probably some kind of weirdly ridiculous narcissist, and well. me. you know. i’m just fucking crazy._

_so, we probably all “should do therapy.” we probably really need it. especially growing up with frank and monica._

_do you think if i had never called monica when i was locked up and desperate for someone to understand, that we’d still be together? i never really got a chance to tell you about that did i? well, i’m gonna cut it short. she basically told me that i needed to find people who’d accept me, yknow, like. not on my meds. told me that you probably meant well, but i couldn’t be around people that were trying to change me, made me think that i couldn’t be loved unless someone loved me when i was unmedicated. how fucking stupid._

_how fucking stupid was i to believe her?_

_monica was never around. i hated her, i still hate her. but i’ve always been her, haven’t i? frank’s always hated me, never hated debbie or carl or lip or fiona or liam, just me, cause i looked the most like her. that’s what fiona always said. that’s why he hit me and no one else. every one else had his qualities, i never did. guess it didn’t help when he found out i wasn’t his kid. only made him hit me more. not terry level, but. more than just what’s normal for fucking discipline. plus, i was fucking fifteen when he found out, a bit too old for him to be hitting me for “discipline.”_

_guess i acted like her too. before, at least. before the southside really engrained itself into me. naïve. simple. everything was great, i had the luxury of believing that i could get out, that i could do anything i wanted if i wanted it. ambition. monica, that’s what frank saw. he saw monica. he saw monica in my face, he heard monica in my voice, he saw monica in my actions, my laugh, my everything._

_i’m crazy like her too._

_maybe it was that she always paid attention to me, more than the others. i was her favorite, even though a lot of the time all she ever told me was that i was beautiful. that’s all i am, right? a pretty face._

“No, Ian. No.” Mickey practically shouted to the room. It was late, if anyone was sleeping in the rooms around him, he probably woke them up. “You’re so much fucking more than that.”

 

_but i was her favorite. she paid more attention to me, wanted me to like her more than she wanted anyone else to like her. i think i loved that. no one ever wanted that, i never mattered that much to anyone, and she was my mother. i mattered the most to my mother. but she understood, too. i had a relationship with her. i love her, but fuck, i hate her. i hate what she did to me when i was manic. but i just. i don’t want to talk about that. you don’t know about that. i can’t talk about that. i just want to forget. forget about her, wherever she is right now. she always leaves, just dips in and out of our lives. doesn’t really care what destruction she leaves in the process._

_hurricane monica, right? surprised no one started calling me hurricane ian when i went officially off the fucking rails._

Mickey started at those last few sentences for a while. What the fuck did Monica do to Ian that he didn’t tell Mickey, that he didn’t want to tell Mickey, couldn’t tell Mickey? What the fuck had that bitch done?

It had Mickey’s blood boiling, and suddenly, he was standing up, pacing the room back and forth, fighting from punching the wall, or going out and starting a fight with whatever poor fucker passed him first. What the fuck had that cunt done to him? This was _Ian_ , and Ian was always okay with talking to Mickey about this shit. But he can’t talk about what Monica did?

It took everything in him to not drive back to Chicago and figure out how to hunt the bitch down and kill her, slit her open, harvest and sell her organs. Get himself some money, then come back to Mexico. Perfect fuckin’ plan. Maybe grab Ian on the way back.

 

_No, Mickey, don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. You’re not hunting Ian’s fucking mom down and gutting her like a fuckin’ fish. This isn’t the mafia, man._

Mickey sighed, slowing his pacing down across the thin carpet, running a hand through his hair. It was messy from rolling around on it when he was trying to sleep, from consistently running his hands through it when he got stressed. He sat at the edge of the bed, lighting another cigarette. Maybe he should quit. That was a fleeting thought, what would he do without a fucking nicotine fix, he’d go fucking insane.

He sat back on the headboard of the bed, putting the blanket over his legs and picking the notebook up again.

 

_i’ve been laying in my bed all day. since i got home from you yesterday, really. i just haven’t gotten out of bed i’m regretting it. i should have waited until i could feel and when i was ready, mickey. today was a disaster and i’m so sorry._

_i blew off work and fiona’s yelling at me like my boss and i’m so tired of it. why didn’t anyone give me time to get used to these fucking meds before pushing me into a job? sometimes i just can’t do it. not because i’m depressed, but these meds make me tired, drained. really fucking tired. really fucking drained._

_she’s yelling and leaving the room, then coming back to ask if i’m taking my meds or if i’m depressed, then leaving again and then coming back to get pissed some more._

_i’m just numb. but it’s such an unrealistic expectation. that if i’m too “sad” I’m immediately depressed. what, because i’m bipolar and feel too much sometimes i’m not supposed to feel at all? am i supposed to just be a numb fucking robot for the rest of my life?_

_sometimes people just don’t want to go to work, like, you know, normal people. not crazy people, like me. why is that any different than this? i’m not depressed. i just don’t want to go to work. there’s sick days for a fucking reason. or mental health days. or personal days. or vacation days. anything like that. for normal people, not just crazy people. but, because i’m crazy, using any of those days instantly means that i’m depressed or manic. it’s kind of unfair._

_just let me fucking lay here. i want a new fucking job, but who’s gonna hire someone who’s technically handicapped? don’t really have a promising future, do i?_

_it doesn’t really matter though. not now, not for awhile. i just want to sleep._

_goodnight mick. sleep well._

Mickey put the notebook down, done for the night. Actually done for the night. He closed it and put it under the pillow next to him, like a secret. He guesses that’s what it really was. A book of secrets, meant specifically for Mickey, from Ian. He runs a hand over his face, srunching up his nose and rubbing at his eyes. He knows he should have gotten something to eat before coming here, but he while he was good at plans, he wasn’t exactly the best at focusing on basic human needs like that.

He turned the light off again, determined to actually get some sleep this time. He closed his eyes, one line from the note spinning around in his head. He swears he could hear it in Ian’s voice.

 

_i’m so sorry i can’t say it. i think i’m defective._

_day nine_

_i can’t believe it’s been so long since i’ve written._

_i also can’t believe i’m getting talked into this again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually finished this chapter, it was such a fucking struggle.  
> Plus, I finished my English class for the year, and I have a couple of things to do for the end of the year and I'm completely done! Look at me go.
> 
> I'm actually not gonna fail, look at that.
> 
> It's going to start skipping days now, cause you know, realistically I can't write a letter every single day. It would also get boring and mundane.
> 
> Thank you for reading I appreciate it! xx
> 
> I have a twitter you should come follow, I'm kind of funny. @iangaIIger


	7. day nine.

Mickey woke up the next morning to the sun shining too-bright through the translucent curtains of the motel room. The blanket was scrunched at the bottom of the bed, half of it on the floor, from where he kicked it off when the room got too hot. The sheets were sticking to his skin uncomfortably, because _damn_ , if he thought Chicago summers with no A.C. were bad, Mexican winters with no A.C. were just as fucking bad.

He covered his eyes with his hand, trying desperately to block the sun out and silently begging whatever fucking supernatural deity there is out there to let him get _some more fucking sleep._ Who the hell decided to make these curtains so god damned thin?

Rolling out of bed, Mickey slowly walked his way over to the bathroom, watching the light bulb flicker a bit until it came to life. He looked into the grimy mirror, grimacing as he stared back at his reflection.

 

_Ah, great. I look like I haven’t slept in fuckin’ six years._

He quickly showered and brushed his teeth, going back into the room and getting dressed. He knew that today he had to at least get some food to last him a bit – he had no plan on where to go after this motel, and had no idea how long he’d be living out of a stolen car for before he could find a job or a place to stay. Getting food was a necessity. Some more smokes too, probably beer.

Mickey grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand, lighting it as he glanced over at the notebook sitting delicately on the bed. Although the comforter and sheets had moved carelessly around the bed over the course of the night, the notebook stayed perfectly in place. He sighed out smoke through his nose, turning his head away and walking out of the door. He could read more of it later, he needed to get food; he had one more night before he had to figure out where the hell he was going.

He got in the car, drove right out of the parking lot of the motel, and kept driving straight down i85, because how can you go wrong if you’re just going straight?

A bit further down the road, he hit the small town of Vallecillo, which was mostly side roads of houses, but he passed two or three restaurants before coming across a small supermarket. Mickey pulled into the parking lot and stared at the envelope of money that Ian left on the dashboard. Mickey had purposely left it there overnight with the hopes that maybe someone would come steal it and he wouldn’t have to fight with himself about spending it. But he knew that he was going to start running low on cash, and he was going to start running low _soon._ He didn’t want to use it; he didn’t want the fucking money. He wanted to burn it, throw it into the fucking ocean, for fucks sake, he’d rather throw it at god damned school children than use the fucking money. But it’s a constant battle in his head – knowing that he was going to run low soon, knowing that he needed to use it, knowing that Ian wanted him to have it because he cared enough to empty his fucking savings account for him. For him.

 

_“You didn’t think I was actually gonna rob the place? I have a savings account.”_

_“You got a bank account?”_

_“Been working for a year.”_

_“This is all the money in your account, Mr. Gallagher. Are you sure you want to close it?”_

_“…Yeah.”_

Shaking his head, he took the money off the dashboard and threw it into the glove compartment. He sure as hell wasn’t going to use it now, he wasn’t sure if he was ever going to use it, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone steal and use what was rightfully fucking Ian’s hard earned money. Kid saved fucking lives for that money. Mickey pulled the two crumpled twenties out of his back pocket and headed into the store, grabbing a basket on his way in. Walking up and down the aisles, he decided he should get real food rather than just chips and poptarts. He threw two boxes of cereal in, peanut butter, bread, bananas, a couple bottles of Gatorade, water bottles, a six-pack of beer, and then piled up on more bags of chips than groceries in the basket, but couldn’t find any poptarts.

 

_Stupid fucking motel, without a god damned fridge or a fucking microwave. What am I gonna do, eat fuckin’ peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of my god damned life?_

Mickey walked up to the counter and emptied out the basket, making eye contact with the cashier but careful not to make any conversation. As the woman stared back at him with a bored facial expression, she said plainly, “You only have American money, yes? $21.73.”

Mickey blinked back at her, handing her the two crumpled up twenties that he had.

“Uh, can I get a pack of Marlboros too, thanks,” He said, collecting the pack of cigarettes and the change she handed to him and taking the bags of food into his arms, turning out of the store and back to the car. He threw the bags down on the passenger seat on top of one another – because really, who the fuck cares if the bread gets squished? – and lit up another cigarette from one of his old packs, letting the familiar burn into his lungs and closing his eyes, resting his head back on the seat.

Mickey had been in Mexico for a whole fuckin’ day and he was lonely, missing a stupid fucking redhead who was probably already back in the South Side doing God knows fucking what without him. He briefly let his mind wander to Ian, but really, who was he kidding, his mind never really stopped thinking of Ian. Wondering what Ian was doing, if Ian wished he had come with him, if Ian lost his job for going fucking MIA to take a spontaneous road trip down to the Mexican border. He wondered if the Gallagher’s had even noticed that their brother had gone missing, although he seriously doubted it.

Or maybe he didn’t give them enough credit, but history does tend to repeat itself.

Sighing, Mickey started up the car again and turned back the way he came, taking his basic ass groceries back to the Craigslist wet dream of a motel room, deciding he’d go back and wander around a bit tomorrow, because there was nothing else on his mind than a nap (other than that fucking journal).

When he got back to the motel room, he kicked his shoes off, threw the groceries on the floor next to his duffle bag of clothes, and then proceeded to throw himself down on the bed as well. He side-glanced down at the journal that occupied his thoughts, the boy who occupied his thoughts racing through his mind. He escaped prison and now a fucking notebook is running his life. Even though he knew it was a ridiculous thought, a ridiculous concept, he didn’t care. Mickey would continue being a slave to words written in chicken scratch on paper, words written by a boy hundreds of miles away, no matter how much it ached in his chest and tortured him. He couldn’t stop chasing after Ian fucking Gallagher.

Mickey picked up the notebook and unraveled the strings around it, opening it up to the page he left off on.

 

_day nine_

_i can’t believe it’s been so long since i’ve written._

_i also can’t believe i’m getting talked into this again._

_let me start by saying that it really isn’t my fault that i haven’t written. after the first visit, fiona got worried because i wasn’t getting out of bed, even though i told her i really was just emotionally drained and numb and tired, not depressed. but apparently, being mentally ill also equates to being a fucking liar, so she dragged me to the clinic. i don’t even bother putting up a fight anymore. it’s just easier if i let her get her way, if i let them all get their way. i guess it’s better to just be and do what they want rather than be and do what i want. just like old times, i guess._

_so she dragged me to the clinic and even the fucking doctor told her and lip, who dragged his ass away from his life at college, that i’m just experiencing side effects from the medication and that it’s normal to be exhausted and numb and drained and not to push me so hard, let me have a break and let me sleep and that it’ll wear off soon. i don’t particularly believe her, i’m still convinced this is going to last forever. but lip and fiona seemed satisfied, but still pretty worried and i could feel them watching me like i was going to shatter on the L ride home. but i went home and took a nap and ended up sleeping until the next afternoon. i don’t know why i was still tired._

_then after i woke up lip decided i needed to go out for lunch, and he dragged me out of the house to go eat with him, but i wasn’t really all that hungry, and he kept me out all day until i just wanted to go home and fucking sleep again. so i slept all night into the morning, and then i had work the next day. fiona always has me work crazy long shifts, and i’m convinced she’s only doing it to make sure i’m out of the house more often. that night i went home and she had me hang out and smoke with her and watch a movie on the couch until i actually fell asleep sitting up, and you know i can’t fall asleep just anywhere. i have to be in a fucking bed._

_and that leaves us here. after a fucking lovely morning of watching fiona and debbie fight over debbies unborn child, liam finding a switchblade in carl’s pillow, and then debbie shitting all over carl, and then fiona yelling at me to not be late to work, we’re here. today. svetlana came into work with yevgeny about an hour ago, said you wanted to see me again. i told her i wouldn’t, that i was done with that part of my life. what fucking part of my life? the entire part of it? you were the only part of my life that mattered. no. i just want to be done remembering the pain i caused you i guess. i want to be done hurting you. she kept offering me money, like putting a price on seeing you was gonna make me come see you. eventually i said yes and she looked so god damned pleased, but man, it wasn’t the money. i’m just weak. selfish. i need to see you. i know it’s gonna hurt you. i don’t have a plan for this visit. maybe i’ll have the balls to make you hate me this time. maybe. i’ll keep it in my mind. but that’s what today is. i’m coming to see you in a few hours, mick. i’ll see you soon._

_oh fuck mickey. fuck fuck fuck. if i thought that the first time i saw you was fucking bad, this was the worst fucking thing that could have ever happened. you walked out from the back in that fucking orange jumpsuit, and you looked so fucking pale, like you hadn’t slept since you got in. that fucking…that fucking floaty feeling started to happen again but it never really settled, it never really made it. i just felt more numb than usual, my head didn’t feel all there. i just can’t feel mickey. fuck. i’m so sorry you have to deal with this shit. why can’t i feel sorry WHY CAN’T I FEEL FUCKING SORRY. WHY CAN’T I FEEL SAD THAT YOU’RE IN THERE WHY CAN’T I FEEL SCARED FOR YOU WHY CAN’T I FEEL ANYTHING._

_you just kept looking at me, like you were so god damned happy to see me. you fucking thanked me for coming back, and the first thing i could even think to do was tell you that svetlana paid me. that wasn’t even why i came, but all i wanted to do was make you hate me, because WHY DO YOU WANT ME HERE? AFTER EVERYTHING I’VE PUT YOU THROUGH. THE ONLY THING I WANTED TO DO WAS JUMP THROUGH THAT GLASS AND PUNCH YOU AND SCREAM AT YOU FOR WANTING ME HERE BECAUSE WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKING BLIND, WHY LOVE SOMEONE WHO ONLY HURTS YOU? WHY LOVE SOMEONE WHO FUCKED OTHER GUYS WHEN THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN IN YOUR BED? WHY LOVE SOMEONE AND WANT SOMEONE WHO YOU NEED TO CARE ABOUT AND WATCH LIKE THEY’RE SOME SORT OF FRAGLIE PIECE OF CHINA?_

_and holy fuck to tattoo my name on your chest. it looks infected, and i don’t know how you can fix that in prison. how the fuck do you even get your hands on shit to tattoo yourself in prison? can you look that up on google before you get yourself locked up? it doesn’t even matter that it’s spelled wrong, honestly. it was…almost flattering? sweet? i don’t know. i feel like i should think it’s dumb, like it was a bad idea. i just don’t understand how you could still do this, still want me, still think that i’m it for you, i’m the only person for you, even after everything i’ve done and put you through._

_after i told you it was spelled wrong and i laughed that small laugh, the only kind of laugh that i even have these days, you looked so pleased with yourself. like it was the only thing you ever wanted from your life – to hear me laugh._

It was true, the only thing Mickey ever wanted at that point was to make Ian smile, laugh, do something other than look at his hands with a blank face, empty eyes. And when he laughed, it felt like the room was a little warmer, the world a little brighter, just because Ian seemed a little bit happier. Like maybe things weren’t so bad after all, like maybe Ian was okay, wasn’t as bad as Mickey convinced himself sometimes. That laugh played through his head at night for weeks while he was locked up, a lot of times it was the only thing getting him through the day. Amazing how a fuckin’ laugh can get him through a fuckin’ prison sentence.

 

_you asked if i ever thought of you. it's laughable. if i didn't have to force myself to laugh i'm sure i would have laughed in your face. because fuck mickey. four hundred times a day. sometimes it's random thoughts, other times it's because i'm writing to you, but a lot of times it's memories, every moment we've ever spent on fast forward through my brain. or even fucking better, when am i not thinking about you? my minds constantly racing with mickeymickeymickeymickey that i don't think i really have a concept of the world outside of mickey. it never stops. i don't think it ever will._

_"will you? wait for me?" i tried to make up excuses. you’re in here for fifteen years. “yeah, but eight with over crowding.” you tried to kill my sister. “half sister, like you give a shit, bitch had it coming.” all valid reasons. and i want to. wait, you know. every bone in my body every cell i'm made of. but what does my word mean? i wasn't supposed to cheat on you but i did it anyway._

“You were fuckin’ manic, you idiot,” Mickey growled into an empty room. If he said it out loud maybe someone would hear, maybe Ian would somehow hear and understand, get it through his thick fucking skull that this illness wasn’t something that defined him. He wasn’t bipolar disorder, and the things that he did when he was manic weren’t things that he could control.

_and god. i don't want you to sit here with hope, i want you to hate me i came here with the intent of letting you go and letting you be fucking free of me, so why the fuck did i say yeah? why did i tell you i would? so it would be a lie and you could have something to hate me for later? so i could torture you more? i really don't know what's fucking wrong with me. but really, i think i’ll always be waiting for you. i think that even if i find someone new, and someone after that, if i find twenty someone news, i’ll always be waiting for you._

_it’s always you mick, it’s always been you. since i was fifteen. it’s been you since before i was it for you._

_i was going to say no. cut it right there and just…maybe let you go for once. but you asked again and when you did you looked so broken, so fucking sad when that buzzer went off and you told me to fucking LIE if i had to, and mickey you should know me by now, i can’t lie to you. when i’m in my right mind, when i’m not manic, i can’t lie to you. and you just stared at me and i couldn’t. i couldn’t tell you no. so i didn’t._

_“Will you? Wait?”_

 

_“…Yeah, Mick. I’ll wait.”_

_and then i was expected to go home and act like this shit never happened? carl got home today, which is nice because out of all of them, carl’s always been the one that understood me the most. but they expected me to sit with everyone, sit with fucking frank, and hang out? but of course, i sat there and i did it. because why wouldn’t i? at least no one made a god damned comment about me drinking a beer for once. and frank was talking about how proud he was of carl for going to juvie, which, what the fuck._

_and then carl left and fiona left and i had nowhere to go because who do i really have? you’re gone and mandy’s gone and lip fucks off to college so. i went upstairs and stared at my ceiling for hours because even after i took my meds i was still thinking about visiting you and your face when i left._

_why can’t we ever have anything good mick? why does something always have to get in the way of us?_

 

Mickey turned to the next page of the notebook. Guess that nap isn’t fucking happening.

 

_day ten._

_it feels like everything around me is going to shit and i can’t fix it._

_you were the only one who knew how to pick up the pieces._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually the worst. I'M SO SORRY FOR TAKING OVER A MONTH FOR THIS WHAT THE FUCK. Well, I hope this makes up for it.
> 
> Also, I'm just gonna say I read every time someone comments but I'm actually the worst at trying to respond to them, so thank you for commenting I appreciate it, I appreciate you reading and enjoying it! I love reading them it really makes my day :) 
> 
> I'm gonna try and update faster now, especially because I have to start watching s6 to write this...which I really don't want to do. Oops.


	8. day ten.

_day ten._

_it feels like everything around me is going to shit and i can’t fix it._

_you were the only one who knew how to pick up the pieces._

Mickey rested the notebook down on his lap, his heart aching as he read the words written on the page. He wasn’t sure which hurt more; that Ian felt as if his life was falling apart, or that he needed Mickey to pick up the pieces and he wasn’t there to do it. _Fuck,_ it hurt knowing that he was able to pick up the pieces at all. Nothing Ian wrote is going easy on him, and Mickey seriously doubts anything is going to start going easy on him. The entire notebook is probably going to be filled with one heart-wrenching thing after another, until Mickey’s nothing but a mess of missing and loving Ian Gallagher. 

It didn’t matter that all of the letters were written over a year ago, they still managed to stab him in the chest all the same.

 

_i wonder how you’re doing a lot, especially on days where i feel like i’m at my worst. i wonder how your life is. i wish i could talk to you, i wish you and me could sit and bullshit about everything and nothing the way we used to. i wish we could sit on the rooftop where we made that training course and share a six pack and a joint and just hang out. you know, i always saw right through you. you always pretended to not listen to me, but i knew you heard everything i said. i knew that you remembered everything._

_but even if we can’t do that, i fucking wish i could come visit you, talk about our days like that, you know? but i clearly can’t, that’s been proven twice, unfortunately. i think that listening to you talk, about anything really, would make my day better. my life better. make everything feel like it had some kind of glue holding it together at the seams, like maybe it wasn’t all going to fall apart right under my feet at any moment._

_you ever feel like impending doom is coming? because that’s how i feel right now. like, today just really fucking sucked and i fucked up a lot, but i don’t really even think it’s my fault._

_on the bright side, i’m feeling a bit more. i even talked to debs a bit today which was nice. oh, carl brought home a kid who aged out from juvie. he literally brought a kid the same age as me home, it’s like he brought back a living souvenir. and he came back with cornrows and i have absolutely no idea what’s going on with that kid._

Mickey smiled and snorted out a laugh. Of fucking course, Carl would go to juvie and bring a fucking kid home with him, and would come out trying to act like he had more street cred than he did. A fucking wreck is what that kid is, a fucking wreck.

 

_the kid’s nice enough, quiet, but he's kind of terrifying in a way that you never were. maybe it's because you were large in a way where your presence just filled the room, and he's just...large. he has this look in his eye that gives me the fucking chills. he's taller than i am, and he's definitely got about six inches on me, mick. for someone the same age as me it's pretty fucking intimidating._

_shit, the kid sleeps with a hammer._

_but, it’s always fiona yelling at me about work. always. it never stops. have i told you she’s banging her boss? yeah, well, she’s doing that. i guess i’m not necessarily the person to criticize who she’s sleeping with, but i may just be bitter because i constantly have to interact with both of my bosses outside of work. in my own home. it’s kind of unfair and i’m kind of sick of it. i know that if you were here i’d at least have another home to run away to, honestly i wouldn’t even be living here, so i wouldn’t have to see them, ever._

_but every morning starts the same. she comes in, she tries to “discreetly” count my pills without waking me up, and sometimes i just let her. i pretend i’m still sleeping and let her get the satisfaction in so she knows, but this morning i really just couldn’t. they can’t tell that i’m walking around like a zombie? they can’t tell that i’m stable and maintaining? i’m clearly not manic, i’m sleeping normal hours, shit, the pills are making me sleep too much right now, i don’t have any ridiculous amounts of energy, i’m not doing anything reckless or dangerous._

_and i’m not depressed, i’m getting out of bed, going to work, even hanging around them, y’know? eating dinner with them, watching tv with them when they’re actually around, cause a lot of times no ones really around. debs is around a lot, but lips in college, fiona’s always either at work or with sean, that’s the boss, the one she’s fucking, dating, whatever. carl just got home, but he left his own welcome home party early. so, he’s gonna be out doing god knows what god knows where. so it kind of just leaves me and debs, when she’s not at school and i’m not at work. and well, frank whenever he comes around. but do i really want to be around someone who could up and snap and try to hit me? maybe he hasn’t done it in awhile but i think the thought’s always in the back of my mind. and my reflexes aren’t very good anymore, these pills slow me down._

_so even though i’m not sixteen anymore and i probably wouldn’t let frank slap me around anymore, i don’t really know how well i’d do at fighting him off._

Mickey forced himself to unclench his fists from around the notebook, afraid that he’d accidentally rip some of the pages out. He hated thinking about the way Frank treated Ian, the way Ian was the only one that Frank ever tried to beat on because from day fucking one, Ian was the most like his mom. There were times where he wondered why he didn’t kill Frank in the first place. It would’ve done Ian and that entire family a whole lot of fucking good.

 

_“You can’t—you can’t—I don’t want you to—”_

_“What did I just say to you? Done is done. What do you think, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend here? You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me.”_

Yeah, the look on Ian’s face. The way he couldn’t get out his words, held back his tears as Mickey told him brutal lies to try and cut off whatever kind of feelings there were. To hide. He didn’t kill Frank because he couldn’t get the picture of Ian looking like a kid holding back tears, begging him not to be a murderer, a criminal, not to disappoint him—and yeah, he was a kid, but he never looked that fucking young.

The fear of his dad never had anything on his fear of loving Ian fucking Gallagher.

 

_i’m rambling again, aren’t i? you’re going to get this and if you even decide to read it you’re probably gonna get through this and think, “what the fuck ian? shut the fuck up, man” and i don’t really blame you. i just don’t really have a place to put all of my thoughts and i know that if you were here you’d know all of this, you’d care about all of this, and i’d tell you all of this._

_i don’t think i’m giving you enough credit. odds are, if you do read this, you’re going to read every fucking word. you cared. you probably still care. you shouldn’t. i haven’t done anything to make you care._

_things just aren’t feeling right. like i said, impending doom. you know when you can feel there’s a rainstorm coming? and then you can see it coming through the sky? it’s like feeling like there’s a storm coming, before the thunder, before the lightening, before the dark clouds rolling in._

_sorry. rambling again. sorry._

_so yeah, fiona tries to check my pills every morning and she thinks she does a good job at not waking me up, but really, she wakes me up every morning. and i usually let her get away with it but this morning i just couldn’t. i think it’s the impending doom feeling, maybe, or maybe i’m just fed up with everyone still thinking that i’m incapable of taking care of myself. i’ve proved that i can do this, i can take my pills. i want them to treat me like it._

_so when i called her out on it, she completely ignored it and just asked me to talk to debbie about getting an abortion. and then nagged me about going to work, like i can’t get up and go myself._

_so i figured i’d talk to debbie, but for debbie. not for fiona. because fiona thinks she can decide what we all do, but never takes into account what any of us want. or the fact that any of us are fully functioning humans who can make our own decisions and, you know, function on our own. and get to work on our own. and take our pills on our own._

_maybe i’m just bitter._

_debs probably isn’t getting an abortion, and i’m not going to yell at her and try and force her to. i don’t think it’s a good idea for her to have a kid at fifteen, but i don’t think it’s my place to tell her what she can or can’t do. i’m not her parent. when i got up she was digging around a closet in the hall to find old baby clothes because she decided to carry around a bag of flour and pretend it’s a kid to “prove to fiona she’s her own person”_

_i told her it wasn’t gonna work, fiona’s trying to control everything about us recently. (i’m also not too sure how carrying around a bag of flour is going to prove anything, but i kept my mouth shut on that one)_

_she went on about how it was her body and she can do what she wants, i told her basically what i tell you all the time, how at home i’m getting meds shoved down my fucking throat and at work i’m getting yelled at for…anything else, really. and, jesus christ mick, it’s a bad idea to have a kid at fifteen, yeah, but fiona was sending her weird statistics in text messages, something about how teen moms don’t find husbands or something_

_what the fuck_

What the fuck is with Fiona and trying to guilt the kids into doing shit? First it was Ian and calling him Monica to try and get him to take his meds, and now she’s telling Debbie she’s not gonna get married if she has a kid? Gallagher’s and their great methods of support.

 

_seriously, there are better ways to do this. not my business though. she’s my sister, not my kid. then i got caught up talking to debbie about how we can’t do anything right in this house, and i missed the L, so i had to wait, and i was late for work, and surprise, i got bitched at. told her it wasn’t my business if debs had a kid, she told me about money and how it was my business and jesus christ, my head hurt, mickey. i was getting food thrown at me to bring out to tables, and fiona’s telling me i’m supposed to TELL debbie she can’t have a kid. not convince her to have an abortion, but tell her she HAS to. when has that ever worked for anyone?_

_a “united family front” she said. when are we ever a “united family front” on anything? unless they’re trying to shove meds at me or force me into a fucking psych ward. because i can’t remember us being a “united family front” since before i got sick. since before i left. i don’t really know when our family fell apart, because we weren’t always like this. we used to really love each other. i mean, we still love each other now, but we loved each other differently then. everything’s changed. i don’t know what happened._

_i remember when i wasn’t afraid to go to fiona with anything. i wanted to be around her and the only reason i didn’t tell her about the things going on in my life was because i didn’t want to burden her with them, because she already had enough going on. now…now it’s like she’s going to try and dictate any emotion i have. anything i say to her is instantly going to be a warning sign. everything i do has to be a secret because if it deviates from what she has going on in her head it’s a big problem. i can’t have my own plans because she has plans for me. i feel like a puppet in fiona’s show._

_i remember when lip was my best friend, my only friend. when i trusted him and valued his opinion. when being around him didn’t feel like i was suffocating. but it does now. i feel like i’m suffocating around him. like our relationship crashed and burned to the ground years ago and there’s no fixing it. he started judging my decisions starting with kash, ending with you because after you i stopped telling him things. after he heard “mickey milkovich” i’m pretty sure he saw “self destruct button.” if only he had really stopped and listened to me._

_although, when everything went down with me and this fucking disorder, when i ran away and you brought me back, when you cared and you tried and you stuck around…lip knew he was wrong. i know you guys always seemed like you didn’t get along but i know he respected you, hell, he may have even fucking liked you a little bit. and i know you well enough to know you didn’t hate him completely._

_but me and lip. i guess he’s always going to have my back. no matter how ofter we want to kill each other, no matter how often it feels like we’re never going to talk again. i don’t know with him sometimes. because he always tries. as much as it feels like he’s smothering me or that our friendship is unsalvageable, he always tries to at least make me feel like he’s still here. like we’re on the same level. that even though i’m fucking crazy and stuck here, in the south side, forever, and he’s in college making something of his life, that we’re the same. it’s nice._

_we always end up on equal footing somehow. if we fight, or if we try to figure something out, or if we just have each others fucking backs, somehow we're always there. he's my brother._

_rambling. again._

_did i always talk this much? i never talk much around anyone, but i know i talked more around you than around anyone else. i just don’t know if it was always this much. i guess i never really paid attention. i guess i never really thought i’d have to remember._

_so work. i work all day. decided to eat a piece of fucking pie and sit down. and fiona came and bitched at me for taking a break and not paying for the pie and i asked her if she clocked out when she went out and smoked with vee and she reminded me again that she was the assistant manager. so i told her why i was pissed off. about the meds and the barking orders and everything. and she told me that i should be thankful for the job she got me._

_am i bitching too much? is this the moment where you would go, “gallagher, shut up you’re being a fucking girl”_

_i don’t have a voice of reason anymore. i have me. that’s about it. so we argued, she told me that if i didn’t like it then i should leave…so i left. and then she got mad and went “so you’re just gonna leave?”_

_she told me to leave. so I left. why was she mad that i left?_

_i rode the L around for a couple hours because i just didn’t know what to do. i didn’t know where to go._

_i don’t know if it’s me or if it’s them. i can’t imagine that everyone else has changed. it has to be me. i have to be the one that’s changed, mickey. i’m just so fucking angry about everything. i’m mad that i’m the only one that got these fucked up genetics and now i’m going to be a ticking timebomb for the rest of my life. everyone’s always going to look at me like i’m a car crash. they’re always going to walk on eggshells around me._

_i’m angry that i had to give up everything i ever wanted because the army’s not going to hand a gun to someone who one day could either go crazy and try to shoot his commanding officer or get depressed and try to shoot himself._

_i’m miserable because it feels like i’ve lost everything. i lost what i wanted to do, the only thing that i really ever worked towards. i’m losing the people i love. i’ve lost you. fuck, i lost who i am. i don’t even know who ian is half the time. what do i even enjoy? what do i want to do tomorrow? in two weeks? two years? a decade? the pieces of my life are falling apart, and they’re shattering on the way down. i wish you were fucking here mickey. i wish i wasn’t so god damned angry. i was i wasn’t so fucking miserable._

 

Mickey sighed, setting the notebook to the side and lighting up a cigarette. The thought of quitting smoking came and went quickly; maybe he’d quit when he settled somewhere. When he wasn’t so stressed out. The thought of Ian, sitting on a train, his eyes empty and blank, mind focused on being angry at the world for his diagnosis, killed him. The idea of it made him want to throw something, the notebook, the alarm clock on the night table, possibly throw up. He couldn’t have been there; there was no way for him to have helped Ian. There was nothing he could have done to make him feel better.

 

_Why do I keep fucking reading this shit? This is like cruel and unusual punishment. This shit is practically a crime against humanity is what it fuckin’ is._

 

He knew exactly why he was reading it. Because as much as Ian talked to him, he didn’t know the inner workings of the kids mind. He didn’t know shit like this; he didn’t know how Ian felt about his relationship with Lip, he didn’t know how Ian felt about his diagnosis, he didn’t know these fucking things. He didn’t know about the year he was locked up. They didn’t talk about it when they were together; it wasn’t their main concern. Mickey thought they had time for that.

“Fuck,” He muttered. He never had a problem with being alone, but since he got to fucking Mexico, the room had never felt so empty. His life had never felt so god damned empty. The space next to him on the bed was occupied by a notebook filled with letters, instead of being taken up by Ian. It was like damnation. 

Mickey sat back against the headboard again, taking long drags off of his cigarette, trying to mentally prepare himself to read more. As much as he wanted to understand, as much shit as he could take, reading this shit hurt a lot more than he really wanted to admit.

 

_day twenty two_

_i think this is what hitting bottom feels like._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm here again. 
> 
> Sorry I suck. Sometimes the chapters get kind of hard for me to write, and then sometimes I get super inspired and I write a ton and I can't stop.


	9. day twenty two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: depiction of 3x06; depiction of a panic attack

_day twenty two._

_i think this is what hitting bottom feels like._

_and by bottom i mean normal people bottom. not crazy bipolar depressive episode bottom where you wake up one morning and you're stuck in your boyfriends bed and you can't get out for a little over two and a half weeks. where it feels like there's cinderblocks on top of all your limbs and so much as rolling over exhausts you enough to sleep for five hours. where you can't speak to tell everyone that you can't leave the bed because of what you might do. because when you have to, when you absolutely have to use the bathroom because you would rather not repeat pissing yourself instead of standing up, you're afraid because of what you might do if you're up. where you're not even being a burden in your own home, but somebody else's. where there's talk of being hospitalized and suicide and hiding the knives, and hiding the knives seems like a really good idea except that really low part of you believes that no, it's a bad fucking idea._

_no, not that kind of a bottom._

_the normal kind of bottom. the regular rock bottom._

_i hate wallowing in my own shit, in my own pity, in my own self loathing and my own hatred of my own fucking illness and my life. i hate that they look at me like i’m glass, like they have to be careful around me. it makes me feel like they have to feel bad for me. i don’t want that, i don’t need that. i’ve never needed that. i’ve always been able to function entirely on my own, without having to rely on anyone or anything. but now because i’m sick it’s like they have to take an entire 180 with their lives and cater to me. they can tell me all they want that i’m not a burden, but they don’t even realize that i am. i can see it, though. i can see what they can’t see._

_but. rock bottom is a lot of different things for me. i don’t even know if you could really consider this rock bottom for a normal person, because i’m not even necessarily a normal person. so many of my underlying issues have to do with my meds, or my disorder, and normal people don’t worry about that shit. so yeah, for right now, this feels more normal than my last rock bottom, than the rock bottom that had me holed up in your room for close to three weeks. but it’s still not a normal rock bottom._

_i’ve been getting real bad nightmares lately. i don’t know what’s causing them, maybe it’s stress or something, maybe it’s just random timing, i don’t know. but they’re really bad. really vivid, and i get them every fucking time i sleep. it’s not just at night, but if i get too tired during the day and i lay down and sleep for like an hour or something, i end up waking up in a cold fucking sweat and it feels like, yeah, i’m waking up, but even though i’m waking up the dream is still going on. i wake up terrified and sometimes i wake up yelling and scaring the fuck out of carl and the kid, nick, that he brought home from juvie. he stopped sleeping with that hammer, by the way. sometimes i wish that he hadn’t. because if he still slept with it at least when i wake up and he’s asleep on my fucking floor i know that he’d be there with the hammer to fight off whatever i wake up to. he’s almost as jumpy as me when he wakes up._

_the nightmares get worse the closer i get to the bottom._

_sometimes the nightmares are a lot of stuff that happened the whole two months i was in the army. sometimes it's things that happened from when i went awol to when you found me. i really hate those. sometimes it's flashes of "she's gonna fuck the faggot out of you, kid” and “you're goddamn gonna watch" and "ride him ‘til he likes it" and the image of your dad hitting you with that gun and the gun pointed at me and the gun pointed at you and the look on your face, how broken you looked. how you watched me until i cried and then you couldn't look at me anymore. i only get that nightmare on my worst nights. but it's the one that sends me into a panic the most._

_i’m having a lot of “worst nights” recently._

_we never really talked about it. about that day. about svetlana and what happened and what your dad did. when it first happened, you didn’t want to. i know you didn’t want to. you weren’t even around after it happened, and every time you were…it wasn’t pretty for us. but when i got back, i never even bothered to ask. i never even thought to ask. i don’t know if you would have been okay with talking about it. you know, you made a lot of progress with the whole emotions thing, but i don’t know if you would have been okay with that. but maybe if i had been in my right fucking mind i could have asked. i’m sorry i never asked._

Mickey felt his breath catch in his throat. He could feel the phantom throb of the cut on his forehead after his dad pistol-whipped him. He could feel the weight of Svetlana on top of him, he could feel her legs around his waist, her hands on his chest, could see her head thrown back a little bit, he could see Ian sitting in the chair next to the couch watching with blood dripping down his face, onto his chest, tears in his eyes, he could see his father with a sick grin on his face as he watched, fucking _watched_.

It all played out in front of him like a movie, his heart beating rapidly while all he could do was sit there, notebook in a vice-like grip, his knuckles white, eyes wide and glazed over.

_“She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you, kid. Ride him ‘til he likes it.”_

His breathing picked up in gasps, his hands dropping the notebook as they started trembling. His throat felt like it was tightening; he started choking on sobs, his vision going blurry with the tears filling up his eyes. He bit on the inside of his cheek, anything to feel something, anything to feel grounded. His head was spinning, everything feeling so fucking far away from him.

He could feel a weight in his lap, a weight he knew wasn’t there, a shifting weight and one hand on his chest and one hand on his thigh, soft, hairless skin that was really just a phantom but suddenly felt so real shifting up and down in his lap as he continued to gasp for breath and choke on his own throat. 

He knew it wasn’t there, knew her weight wasn’t actually there, but he still felt like he needed to sit under the stream of the showerhead, still felt like he needed to dig his nails into his thighs until he grounded himself back to the earth, still _couldn’t fucking breathe_.

He could hear Terry clap and laugh in the background, he could hear Ian choke back a sob, he could hear Svetlana moan. He could feel his body shake with another sob and he tried his hardest to ignore it. Tried his hardest to ignore the fact that he was fucking crying like a little bitch. Crying over something that had already happened, something that wasn’t even a big fucking deal. It happened, it was over, why the fuck was he still hung up on it.

But no matter how much he told himself that, his body still trembled, he could still feel her, he still had to gasp for breath and choke on sobs, he still had to dig his nails into his thighs until the feeling of the pain grounded him and brought him back down to earth, he still felt… _dirty._

Once he calmed down, it wasn’t a word he would admit. It wasn’t a feeling he would ever admit to. But he would go and shower for forty five minutes and scrub at his skin until it was raw and pink and he felt like the ghost of that day was off again. Just like he did today.

And after he got out of the shower, he got dressed in record time, opened up a beer, lit up a cigarette, smoked it down to the filter in two minutes flat, and sat right back down on the bed where he had been almost an hour before, and picked the notebook up again like nothing had happened.

 

Because nothing _had_ happened.

 

_you ever look at your reflection and not recognize the person staring back at you? it's not like the way it is with mania. with mania i feel like i've been replaced. i look the same, but i feel like i've been replaced with a copy of myself and i'm staring at someone different. someone who's taken over my body. recently it's more like i barely even know who i am anymore. i don't even look the same. i look like i've aged ten years. i look lifeless. i don't even want this._

_today’s just. not my day i guess. i think everyone’s against fiona. debbie’s still mad at her for the whole abortion shit, i’m still mad at her for firing me…or me quitting…or whatever really happened there. it’s a grey area, blurred line, whatever. i’m also pissed off that her boss is still sleeping at our fucking house and that she’s fucking him. but i’m still bitter and i know it. carl’s got a lot of money though, fiona thinks he’s selling drugs again. i don’t know. i’m worried about him. i love him, i wish i could be there more for him to talk to rather than just his fucked up brother who lays emotionless in the bed next to his._

_lip got me a job at his school through one of his professors. as a janitor for his college. it’s not the best job, not something i really want to do, or thought i’d be doing with the rest of my life,_

_college is a weird fucking place though, mickey. i walked in to go find lip’s room and there’s just people everywhere, the dorms reek of pot and beer and it’s filled with people doing whatever they want. i can understand why lip likes it so much, yknow, after his rough start i guess. he’s got a single room now, which is nice. i was looking at some of the work he does…it’s fucking insane. it makes me feel like some kind of an idiot, like how the hell does anyone understand this kind of shit?_

_i hung out in lips room for maybe three minutes before i felt like he just wanted me gone, though. i looked at the work, felt inadequate, his back turned to me while he worked on more schoolwork that i probably couldn’t even read, and i felt like i was being suffocated by the room. like if i stayed in it any longer i would be smothered._

_and he didn’t even do anything wrong, he just had his notes laid out on his bed, and he was sitting at his computer doing a lab, and he told me he couldn’t hang out until later because he had classes to go to. but it still made me feel like i was worthless. like i had no fucking purpose but to be a janitor for lip’s college and walk on this earth and be sick until i die._

_i got there and the guy i talked to first was kinda weird, but guy who i guess is the boss told me that he was in an accident and that he had a plate in his head so that kind of explained it._

_basically my job is to empty all the trash around campus, clean up any messes that i see. i get to walk around with a big trashcan, and come back and get a mop and bucket if i find something that needs cleaning with a mop. i don’t even want to imagine what’s going to need a mop._

_he told me i look smart. it felt like my chest was going to fucking explode._

_that’s it, i’m emptying trash all god damned day. cleaning up other people’s messes. eventually, i get to move on to bathrooms. i’m wearing some other dudes uniform. i get a half an hour lunch break at one, and then i’m done for the day at five. i know my disorder needs routine mick, i know. but why do i need this? why fucking this?_

_then again, why am i complaining? because i don’t have my fucking dream job? some people don’t even have jobs. at least i’m getting money, right?_

_fuck, it’s a fucking letter to you, i can be as selfish as i want. this fucking sucks, mickey. i feel fucking useless, i feel like a fucking failure, i hate this fucking disorder. i want to go inside of my brain and carve out every part of it that’s sick, i want to somehow cut out every sick part of me and make it so i’m back to normal. i’m just me again. i’m just ian again._

_You’ll always just be Ian, man._

Mickey sighed, taking a long sip of the piss-warm beer he was holding. Fuck the crappy motel room without a fridge. He hated that Ian couldn’t see that no matter what he did, no matter what kind of illness he had he would always be Ian. Bipolar wasn’t something he could go in and cut out, it was something that had to be helped with meds and with talking. Neither one of them were comfortable with that, happy with that. But it was easier for Mickey to accept, because he accepted that it needed to be done for Ian to get better, and all he wanted was to see Ian get better.

Ian said he wasn’t broken. He didn’t need to be fixed. But when he’s on his meds, when he finally can see that he’s sick, it looks like all he can see when he looks at himself is _brokenbrokenbrokenbroken._

He hated that Ian couldn’t see that his brain didn’t need _fixing_ , it needed _helping_. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. He isn’t broken. He just needs to accept the fucking process.

The last thing Mickey wanted to see was Ian cleaning up after other people. Ian spent so much time cleaning up other peoples fucking messes, their emotional messes. He didn’t need to spend his life picking up trash. That was fucking beneath him. Ian was the one fucking person too good for that fuckin’ neighborhood, the one person who deserved to get out as soon as he could. He didn’t need to get stuck with some shitty, dead end job, cleaning up after his shithead brother.

Ian wasn’t _below_ these people. Ian was fucking better than these people, walking around at some fancy ass fuckin’ college like who the fuck they are. Ian’s fucking strong, dedicated, the kid cares, about other people, about the shit he does. He’s a good person. Half the kids at that goddamned school are shitty people, people who take for granted every good thing thrown their way, or they bought their way in.

Like fuckin’ Lip. Kid tried to drop out of high school, took for granted the fact that he was a goddamn genius, when Ian would’ve killed for that shit. Would’ve killed to be that smart to get into his stupid West Point shit and get out of the fuckin’ South Side. He wasn’t even gonna go to fuckin’ college, _Mandy_ spent her money, filled out the applications, did it all for him. Mickey had to listen to her bitch and complain about being broke and not knowing how to fill them out for weeks. 

Ian deserved that shit. Not some dead end job as a janitor. Not some fucked up illness. Ian deserved the world.

_the end of my first shift i was walking with lip and his friend came up and they started talking about something, and i could hear the words they were saying and relatively, i knew what the words meant individually, but all strung together in a sentence they made absolutely no sense. something about how if they weren’t around to see some girls laughing then the girls laughing weren’t actually laughing? why weren’t they actually laughing?_

_they were talking about quantum physics. quantum mechanics. quantum something. what the fuck does quantum mean. i left to clock out because i couldn’t be around them after i asked what they were talking about. it got too uncomfortable, like they couldn’t talk around me anymore because they were talking to an idiot._

_i kind of walked around the campus for awhile before i went back to lips dorm. i was afraid to go back, i didn’t want to be around people that i didn’t understand. when i finally ended up back there, there was some kind of party going on, lip said that there’s a party going on there most nights. i think i like it there, he handed me a fucking beer and maybe at college parties i’m normal enough to drink, to pretend._

_maybe i’m normal enough to pretend i’m normal._

_but still not normal enough to fit in around my family anymore, you know? we were fucked up. really fucked up. i asked lip if i could crash in his room because there was absolutely no way i was getting up and going anywhere. and he told me i could. and i made the stupid fucking decision of asking him if i could stay for awhile. because fiona and debbie are fighting, and i get treated like i’m a kid. and we shared a room for our whole lives anyway._

_but he said his professor comes by to fuck sometimes. and he earned his space. so i could crash sometimes, but don’t move my shit in._

_i’m bitter about my whole life, mickey. i shouldn’t be this bitter about my life, should i? i shouldn’t be this bitter to be living._

Mickey felt is heart shatter, felt the pieces fall and settle at the bottom of his stomach. Bitter to be living.

 

_day twenty three._

_this weight on my chest grows ten pounds every day._

_if this is what it’s like to be alive, i don’t want to do it anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A weekly update? Unheard of.
> 
> I did it. I'm here. I'm hoping I'll be able to continue posting weekly.
> 
> Thanks for not totally giving up I appreciate that (:


	10. day twenty three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning; suicidal thoughts, almost suicide attempt

_day twenty three._

_the weight on my chest grows ten pounds every day._

_if this is what it’s like to be alive, i don’t want to do it anymore._

_when my alarm woke me up at ten am, i was still on the floor in lips dorm, and he was gone. you know i have a strict med schedule. ten am, four pm, ten pm. every six hours. i’ve had to change so much of my life for this fucking illness. strict medication regimen, the doctor at the clinic said. i don’t know why she insisted on rattling off the names to me. i don’t know why she insisted i know the names and dosages of my meds. i don’t know why i even need to bother. 100mg of wellbutrin three times a day, 300mg of lithium three times a day, 400mg of seroquel two times a day. like fucking clockwork. antidepressant, mood stabilizer, antipsychotic. every single fucking day. i have to cater my day around my meds, have to carry them everywhere because i’m not fucking home to take them at four. i go into work at eleven, work until five. i’m supposed to stay away from caffeine, all types of mind altering substances, for fucks sake i don’t even think i can get an office job working for any government position because i have a mental illness._

_but you know all about this. i don’t even know why i’m bothering to tell you again._

_i think i’m just so miserable about it, mickey. i’m so tired of it. i’m so tired of feeling like a stranger in my own skin, in my own home, my own family, my own fucking life. i’m invisible, i don’t belong anywhere in this place. i’m completely and totally alone, you know that? i don’t even want myself around. it’s like the only thing i do for my family is take up a bed, wallow around, worry them, make them fucking angry, and stress them out about money for my pills that i don’t even want to take._

_this never ending feeling of emptiness and numbness and loneliness is torture._

_i miss the mania. i miss feeling like every second of the day was a free fall, like every morning i was jumping out of a plane and falling towards the earth. i miss the feeling of excitement, the feeling of everything being new and great and it was like i was invincible. i was the person i always wanted to be; i could do anything, i could do everything. i could hold a knife up to kenyatta’s throat when he was hitting mandy. i could try to save her. because nothing bad could ever happen to me. nothing bad could ever happen at all._

_the feeling of confidence, feeling like i belonged in a room, like i was the room. the things i did…the people i hurt..it didn’t mean anything when i was manic. i didn’t have to feel guilty, because guilt didn’t exist, it didn’t mean anything. logically i knew what it was, but i couldn’t connect it to the things i had done because my brain didn’t see anything wrong with what i’d done._

_i miss that. it’s better than feeling like i’m a burden, like i’ve hurt every single fucking person i’ve ever cared about. like i’m going to continue hurting every single fucking person i care about._

_but the mania made me feel trapped, like i constantly needed to leave. like if i ran enough, ran far away, moved enough, did enough, my skin would stop feeling so tight against my body, so stretched over my bones. it would stop feeling like their were aunts crawling through my veins trying to get me to runrunrunrun._

_i never slept so i never had nightmares, i never had flashback dreams of horrible things that happened to me when i was gone, or horrible things that happened to you, and i could neatly lock it away and pretend it never happened._

_but now. now that i’m sick but actually feeling sick. i’m sick and consciously sick. i can feel all of the guilt. i can feel all of the horrible things i’ve done. i can remember what happened. i get the nightmares and the flashbacks because i’m sleeping. and all i want to do is go back to being manic._

_my job today was to clean up the party in lips dorm. i mean, it wasn’t my only job. but it was pretty much the main one considering what a giant fucking mess the place was. i was in the middle of it when lip came out of his god damned room and i was on my hands and fucking knees cleaning up vomit. and he grabbed the mop and told me he’d help and honestly, i had never felt more fucking ashamed and embarrassed in my entire life. i didn’t want his help, i didn’t need his fucking help. not when he was so much fucking better than me, in his fancy fucking college, with his fucking genius friends, with their quantum fucking sciences and maths, where they’re gonna graduate with fancy advanced fucking degrees, and i’m cleaning up their fucking puke._

_and lip told me it was probably his puke._

_and something inside of me…snapped._

_i’m cleaning up my older brothers puke. as if my entire life wasn’t living in my brothers shadow, literally wearing all of the clothes he grew out of until i was bigger than him and i couldn’t wear his old clothes anymore, him always being smarter than me, better liked, more confident. as if my mania wasn’t the only thing that made me feel better than my brother._

_i’m now working in the one place i will never get to. i will never get to an advanced college or get a good degree like him, and i’m not just cleaning up puke, i’m publicly cleaning up my older brothers puke. it’s like officially proclaiming that he’s the better gallagher brother._

_so we started arguing over a mop and who works for a living, and he told me he worked. like his life is so fucking hard. being a teachers assistant, where he literally hangs out with a professor who’ll pull strings for him, and help him out whenever he needs it. his job is so god damned hard. while i sit here cleaning up other peoples bodily fluids._

_he told me that if i wanted a better job to go back to high school. that no one made me drop out in the first place. it was like a punch in the gut. low fucking blow. no, no ONE made me drop out of high school. SOMETHING made me drop out of high school. bipolar disorder made me drop out of high school. being manic and running away to the army, and then going awol and living in a crack house and dancing in a strip club and then living with my boyfriend and thinking that my life was perfectly fine because the mania told me my life was perfectly fine, that i didn’t need high school, then having a depressive episode, then running away with my boyfriends child, then a stay in a psych ward, then getting arrested, and now i’m here. that’s what made me drop out of high school. i’m almost fucking nineteen. i had just turned seventeen when i dropped out of school. i don’t even remember what it’s like to be in school. i was never a good student as is, i wouldn’t be able to go back. i wouldn’t be able to do the work. i would fail._

_he got mad because he got me this job, and now i don’t fucking want it. no, i don’t want a fucking job cleaning up my brothers PUKE. i don’t know how many times i can reiterate the fact. i’m grateful he found me a job, but i wanted to do something. something great, something extraordinary. and i’m stuck. i’m going to be in the south side forever, as a janitor. i had fucking dreams. i thought i could have been something._

_remember what you said mick? fucked for life?_

_maybe you weren’t so wrong after all._

_i told lip about how he wouldn’t share his fucking room because he thinks he’s “earned” his space, which, how in the fuck did he “earn” anything? the second fiona moved into franks old room lip had his own room anyway, it’s not like he’s never had his own room before. i just needed a place to crash for awhile. a place to stay so i could get away from the shit. from the constant nagging. from the headaches and from feeling like i was incapable of taking care of myself. i wanted to feel like i could be on my own a bit, you know? maybe i missed him a bit too. fucking prick. i hate that i still love the fucking asshole though._

_i don’t care enough to remember who threw the first punch, but i think it was me. it was probably me. recently all i want to do is fight, solve all of my problems with a fight, a screaming match, fight with fists, anything to feel something. but we fought until lip’s friend pulled me off of him, and i fucking left._

_i walked out. i saw my fucking reflection in a god damned store window, saw the fucking jumpsuit i’m wearing that says fucking “dav” because it costs extra to have more than three letters on the god damned uniform, and they haven’t gotten one with my name on it, and fuck. mickey. my life ended the day the word bipolar came out of that doctors mouth._

_i am destined to be a piece of shit, to have a shitty life, to be a shitty person, to do shitty things, to be angry and miserable or manic or depressed. i’m destined for it. i’m destined to be just like my fucking mother. what’s the fucking point of it?_

_they can all see it. my family. they look at me like i’m about to shatter. like i’m a nuclear bomb two seconds from blowing the entire house up. they’re waiting any day for me to blow. why would i keep putting them through this? why would i keep putting myself through this? why did i ever put you through this?_

_i find myself riding the L a lot. at night, when i have no where else to go. sitting alone, writing to you. but this one..this one is different mickey. i don’t know what i’m gonna do mick. there’s a lot of shit going through my head and i know it’s not right but i don’t care. i don’t care at all. the weight on my life, the constant feeling of inadequacy and feeling like i’m never going to be as good as i could have been once upon a time, before bipolar disorder._

_that i’m doomed to be just like my mom. just like monica._

_my family will hate me like her. i’ll end up the exact same way that she is, and from years of watching her…no matter how much i love her in my weird, fucked up way, mickey, she hurt us. she hurt us more than i can fucking explain. i can’t do that to them._

_you won’t even know. i don’t even know who would come and tell you. my family wouldn’t. i don’t know if svet would. i don’t know if mandy would even know. you’ll have to wait fucking years, mickey. i just can’t…i don’t know how to do this anymore, mick._

_i’m sorry._

Mickey could see the words after that apology, knew that there were words after it, knew that Ian was alive and safe, knew logically that Ian didn’t kill himself. He knew all of those things to be true, but his breath still caught in his throat, and fear still struck his body like lightening. He still felt like his world came crashing down on top of him, the world crumbling apart underneath him. The thought…the fucking idea of Ian killing himself—dying at all, but especially killing himself—made Mickey’s world shift on it’s axis.

A world without Ian Gallagher.

Sure, he’d lived without Ian before, but in a relative way, not in a way where Ian ceased to exist. He existed in a world where he just didn’t have Ian, where Ian was slightly out of his reach, but still there. He was still alive.

Thinking about living a life where Ian was dead, no longer somewhere in the world smiling or telling some stupid fucking joke or feeling or _breathing_ was too much to bare. Too much to even comprehend thinking about.

And logically, yes, Ian is alive. Ian is in Chicago. There are more words underneath “ _i’m sorry”_ , but it doesn’t make the two words any less chilling, any less piercing. It doesn’t make it feel any less like someone is pouring battery acid into his bones.

The idea of Ian trying to kill himself is the worst thing Mickey could imagine.

 

_fuck. fuck mickey. fuck._

_i just want this all to go away but i can’t even kill myself right can i?_

_i was just standing there. looking at the water. do you ever have that little voice in your head, the one that holds the self destruct button? telling you, do it, do it, do it, do it, whenever you’re standing on a really high building or you’re doing anything that could kill you? it’s that one voice that tries to tempt you into having total control over yourself, the ultimate control. even if you don’t want to die, you want to do it. want to jump, or anything._

_there’s theories about it. one of them is that the urge to self destruct is actually the body’s way of misinterpreting the body’s instinctual safety signal, you know, like the urge to do it is really like the urge to survive, just you think it’s the urge to kill yourself because your body’s really fucking confused or whatever. another one is that the body does this for the thrill. there’s a thrill in the same way that going into haunted houses is thrilling, or skydiving, or bungee jumping, or even going to a horror movie._

_and then there’s the philosophical one. this is the one that makes the most sense to me. it’s called l’appel du vide, or the call of the void, because of course it’s a fucking french thing, and it’s basically…like the body has so much control…it could either keep itself safe, or throw itself in front of a moving bus. our mind has total control over that. and when given a split second, the idea that it could do anything, our mind has the sudden urge to self destruct, because it’s the most powerful thing it could do. just because the mind can self destruct, it wants to. even for that split second. the whole reason the brain even wants to do this is because it wants to take complete control of whatever situation it’s in, and the ultimate control is to self destruct. and then BAM. self destruct._

_for people who don’t want to kill themselves, i’m sure this isn’t as big of a deal. but i think it’s a big deal for people who consciously want to jump._

_not only was my unconscious telling me to jump; my mind wanting to do the one most powerful thing, pressing the big red self destruct button, but every conscious part of me was screaming to jump too. everything around me just felt like it would be easier if i jumped._

_no more disorder. no more pills three times a day. no more crappy job. no more dead end future. no more horrible nightmares. no more destined to be like my mother. no more of my family watching me like i’m about to break. no more of my family struggling to pay for my meds. no more being a burden. none of it._

_peace._

_peace in death._

_my whole life, i never really thought i’d be the person to want to die. never thought i’d be the one that would want to end it all just to find some semblance of relief. when the mania hit, my mind would wander to thoughts of “do it, jump, you know you want to” when i would stand on high stair cases, or on top of roofs, but in a way where i believed that if i jumped, i would live, and i really wanted to test that theory out. i wanted to see how far my limits could go._

_when the depression hit, i wanted to die because i didn’t think the feeling would ever end. i never thought that the pressure on my chest would ever end, i never thought the emptiness would end, the loneliness despite you laying next to me, the hopelessness, the feeling like i was wandering through my own house but every time i opened a door it led to nowhere. like i was a stranger in my own skin, my own mind, in a bed that i would have called my own but when it hit it wasn’t my own anymore, it was yours and i was a burden. i was a sack of skin and bones that took up space in a bed that didn’t belong to me and used up oxygen that i didn’t feel like i even should have been using._

_i wanted to kill myself because i didn’t think i would ever stop making you cry, i would never stop seeing that look in your eyes, the look like i had completely broken mickey milkovich. no one broke mickey milkovich, no one. but i had done it, and i couldn’t stand it, and i didn’t think i was ever going to stop doing it, and i couldn’t fucking live with that._

_i never really did stop did i?_

_i still don’t really like living with that burden. but that’s besides the point._

_i never thought i’d want to die, and then the disorder hit. and then the aftermath hit. and life with this disorder will never be the same as life before the disorder and that’s really all i could think about when i got off of the train and walked seven blocks and passed twelve payphones where i could have called one of those fucking helplines or maybe mandy or maybe lip or maybe my fucking family but honestly, would my family have even picked up? is mandy’s phone even in service? i haven’t tried to call._

_i walked seven blocks, passed twelve payphones and never once thought about calling anyone for help because all i could think about was how easy it would be to just fucking jump, just finally have everything done. everyone would be so much better off. i would be so much better off._

_i’d be lying if i said i didn’t think of you while i walked there. i thought a lot about hypothetical scenarios of you finding out about me dying, about you getting out in fifteen years and finding out that i had died over a decade prior and no one had gotten around to telling you._

_i thought about how easy everything was when you were here, when it was just us._

_maybe if things had been different…i could have thought about calling you when i passed any one of those twelve payphones. but things aren’t different. and you’re in prison. and no matter what, even if i wanted to call someone, if i had thought to call someone, you weren’t even an option, because i can’t call you._

_you’re in prison. you’re not even mine to call anymore._

_but again. that doesn’t matter. that’s not even what i’m talking about here. my mind is just everywhere. i’m all over the place._

_i was standing there, looking down at the water, wondering where i fucking fit into this god damned world._ _i don't know why i always fit in better with you and mandy and iggy. maybe i wasn't meant to be born a gallagher. i know i wasn't meant to be born a milkovich, too soft, too naive. plus, if i’m destined to be with a milkovich, i can't be one. i never really fit in anywhere. i’m my own fucking breed, alone._

_it’s really funny, yknow, because_ _sometimes in movies they show suicides where people think about all the people they’ll be letting go, all the people they’ll be missing. they have some kind of moment where they realize all of the people that they’ll be leaving behind. but honestly when i was standing on that fucking bridge i wasn't thinking about you or carl or liam or debbie, i was thinking about how hollow i feel. how every time it feels like things are going to be okay, they just aren't. how it's been a full fucking year of this shit, of mania and depression and meds and numbness and that's what my life is now. those are my choices until i die. i'm either going through cycles of mania and depression or i'm medicated and struggling to get by because i hate the meds, and even then, the meds could stop working._

_i don't want to be an avalanche anymore, mickey. i don't want to keep sliding down this slope and taking everyone down with me. that was all i could think about. i could only think about how death would be better than the constant numbness, or the constant looks of worry, or constantly being a fucking burden, or the constant game of russian roulette i’ll be playing with bipolar disorder and medication until the day i die. whether i die from a bullet to the head, natural causes, or an accident caused by a manic delusion or hallucination, it doesn’t really matter. i’ll be sick until something puts me in the fucking ground. that was all i could think about, mick. i’m sorry i didn’t think of you while i was up there. does that make me selfish? does it make me selfish to not have thought of debbie, and how i know that she would have cried for days on end? or how liam would’ve grown up without remembering me? or how fiona would blame herself? or how lip would probably drink himself numb? or how i know somewhere inside carl would’ve secretly thought he was disappointing me? or how you wouldn’t even know, and how it would probably crush you?_

_am i selfish? because after this shit, after standing there and then being here and reflecting on standing there about to fucking jump, i really feel fucking selfish._

_the only thing that really stopped me from doing it was the accident that happened behind me. one car hit another car, one of the people got out and ran away. and then the engine caught fire with the other driver still inside, and she was passed out, and she wouldn’t wake up. so i ran over there and i still couldn’t get her up, and what was i gonna do? let her die so that i could die? and there was smoke everywhere and the seatbelt wouldn’t come off, and when i finally dragged her out into the street i passed out right before the entire car caught fire._

_i woke up to a fireman asking me what my name was before calling for oxyen, and then i passed out again. i swear i thought i was fucking dead mickey, and i was so fucking relieved when i woke up. fuck, i swear i almost asked them to call you before my mind really gathered where i was, what the situation was._

_they checked me out in the ambulance, had a cop drive me home, whatever. i walked into the house, fiona and sean were still awake on the couch and all they did was look up at me. i can guarantee you i looked like hell, and i barely got a “what the hell, are you okay?” and yes, i know, i understand i’ve been snapping but it’s not about my meds, this isn’t about me being fragile, this is about me coming home with rips in my clothing from rolling around on pavement and a fucking distressed look on my face because, holy fucking shit i really just almost tried to kill myself, and they barely did a double take._

_i passed debbie and she was with that girl holly, the one that no one in my family really likes but we all keep our mouths shut because we don’t want to piss off debbie. she smiled like she saw something was kind of off, but didn’t really care and went on laughing and talking about her baby. the only thing that i got was carl. i walked into the room and he looked me up and down and went “what, you get hit by a bus?” but man, he looked fucking scared. he may be a little fucking delinquent and trying his hardest to be some kind of hard, but he’s still my kid brother, and he looked scared, he looked worried._

_so instead of hugging him like i wanted to, kissing him on the head like i used to do when he was younger, i took my meds, i laughed a little and told him i was fine, i tripped and got into a fight with the sidewalk. he laughed a little and him and his juvie friend went to bed._

_and that leaves us here, mickey._

_you and me, like always. it’s where we always end up._

_i really am sorry. for what, i’m not too sure right now. but i’m sorry for it. and one day i hope you believe me._

Mickey slammed the notebook shut, his heart beating out of his chest, cheeks stained with tears that wouldn’t stop coming from the time he started the letter. His breathing was still uneven, the picture of that night painted perfectly in his head. He walked into the bathroom, turning the sink on and splashing some of the water on his face; if there’s water there, there’s no tears.

Sitting down on the bed, he lit up a cigarette and opened a beer, the only way he knew how to comfort himself without Ian around. The only way he knew how to comfort himself when it came to Ian.

He had enough of this for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer than i hoped it would, but it was kind of rough for me to write.  
> i hope the length of it kind of makes up for it though, sorry.


	11. PSA attn:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I DIDN'T DIE

hey friends, i'm probably going to delete this little PSA once i post the next chapter (which i swear i am in the middle of working on). i had a lot going on, and one shots were so much easier for me to write, especially because getting into one character's head is much easier than getting into two character's heads at the same time yiiiikes. but i know that it's been like. fuck a year? and like 90% of you have probably given up on this but i have not given up on this and this hasn't died and i haven't died and i promise things are still happening and still coming!!

and i apologize if i don't reply to your comments. i'm   
a) the most uncomfortable person. i'll end up replying to every comment with "omg thank you so much!!!" and mean it every time, but i'll look like a giant dick  
and   
b) i'm afraid i'll accidentally give something away. you guys ask so many questions about the book and i love that so much it means so much that you guys love it (hopefully you still do!) and i love seeing your comments and ideas and theories because it's so fucking awesome and rad and i can't thank you enough??? but if i answer some of your comments, even by dismissing a theory i could give something away and i don't want to do that on accident! i love and appreciate the support from you too much to give you spoilers even if you want them.

anyway, see u soon with more chapters and more gallavich and more pain bc it kills me inside to write it!

follow me on twitter i'm lame but i'm funny   
@unholynewt


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